


5-Minute Fluff Drabbles

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adorable Castiel, Fluff, Humor, castielxreader, romantic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-01-04 07:20:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 46
Words: 25,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12164154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: A growing collection of short ( generally under 1000 words each ) CastielXReader drabbles - added as I write them. Mostly fluff, a touch of mild angst, some humor, with a kiss of smut (chapters with smut will contain a NSFW warning). Appearances by Sam and Dean and others. Each chapter contains a different drabble. Specific reader flags (ex. Sister!WinchesterReader) and Castiel character tags (ex. Casifer) will appear in the individual chapter summary along with any content/season 13 spoiler warnings so you can skip the chapter if it's not your thing.





	1. Hand Holding

The first time Castiel reached for your trembling fingers, you sat side by side, bunker bound, in the rear of the Impala. The angel had healed you, healed all of you, and yet, as always, there existed wounds he could not see or mend with his divine grace.

In the driver’s seat, muted by guilt, Dean’s green gaze seemed fixed so far away that his white-knuckled clutch upon the steering wheel and steady pressure of his boot on the gas pedal were, more than anything else, a base manifestation of homing instinct.

Sam reclined restlessly against the passenger window, eyelids heavily shut in the elusive search of a fitful slumber forever out of his grasp.

Tears reflective of the gruesome hunt gathered in the corners of your eyes, the briny sting of innocent lives lost stained your flushed cheeks.

The dense shared silence of varying regrets hung viscous in the air between the four of you so that the simple act of breathing became a tiresome chore.

In gaining a familiarity with the nuances of human touch, Castiel understood hand holding to be a means to comfort you – the gesture a physical reminder that you were not alone. He had no way of anticipating the reverberating influence of the action on his own sense of grounding.

Numb fingers sensing the warm rough skin of his palm overlaying your hand, you twined your fingers through his, a shaky sigh rattling your chest as you wriggled across the distance between your bodies to lay your weary head on his shoulder.

Castiel drew your hand to rest upon his lap – grateful to have helped, grateful for your existence.

More and more habitually in the days, and weeks, and months following, Castiel intuitively reached out to hold your hand. Frequently, it was to reassure you, as on that first fateful occasion. Just as often, it was out of a shyly blossoming affection. Sometimes, when he felt most lost and most without purpose, it was to satisfy a nascent desire in himself to hold on to something tangible and alive in a world where too often the immaterial natures of hope and faith were not enough to fend off the darkness or the thought that he, alone, was not enough to aid in the stand against it.

Together, hand in hand, anything seemed possible.


	2. Gift of a Feather

As a general rule, Castiel found the human tradition of celebrating meaningful calendar dates a rather pointless endeavor. He viewed the compulsive marking of the passage of time as a demonstration of mankind’s adorably quaint need to control everything, even time itself. Which, as the more astute members of the human race appreciated, was an entirely theoretical concept anyway; in essence, the largest mass delusion ever perpetrated by society as a whole and worthy of a place in the _Guinness Book of World Records_. Birthdays seemed especially morbid. Why a soul inhabiting a mortal body would desire to celebrate each additional year of physical decay by eating edible artificially dyed sugary artwork alight with waxen flame, engage in the imbibing of enough booze to lead to drunken insentience, or receive an odd assortment of generally useless colorfully wrapped gifts and hollow helium inflated latex balls, or some combination of all of the above, was beyond his angelic comprehension.

This is why, on this particular sunless morning – morning as dictated by the redly glowing digital clock numbers on the nightstand – reclining beside you in your shared bed in the bunker, upon being presented with a small flat square box wrapped meticulously in shimmering silver-blue paper, accented with a perfectly knotted bow, and with your characteristically tight handwritten script spelling out CASTIEL in block letters in the upper corner, he asked, with utterly bewildered affect and narrowed eyes, “What’s this for?”

You frowned, emitting a minute dissatisfied sigh through your nose.

He knew it was not the reaction you were hoping for and regretted his thoughtless query immediately. He racked his mind for the reason you would be offering him a gift apart from the gift of your mere existence in his life which he was continually thankful for being lucky enough to enjoy.

“You don’t know what today is, do you?” you persisted in frowning, which added to the angel’s compunction.

His brow furrowed more deeply in thought. Finally, blue gaze softening diffidently, he shook his stubbled chin, simply offering, “Thursday, September 21?”

“Yes,” you broke into a light laugh, a bright smile blasting any trace of disappointment shadowing your features as you grasped his bicep and pulled yourself up to pepper a sequence of tiny kisses upon his cheek and jawline before burying your face into the prickly skin of his neck. “And that date also happens to be the anniversary of when we met,” your lips tenderly ghosted his bare flesh as you spoke.

He wrapped an arm about your shoulders, snuggling you nearer, “I’m sorry, I-I forgot.”

You prodded him playfully beneath his ribs, tracing the edges of the warding tattoo on the firm plane of his abdomen, “Well, go on, open it. It’s a silly little thing.” In actuality, it was anything but.

Arm still wound behind your back, he jostled you half into his lap to yank the ends of the ribbon and carefully slip the box from the paper. Inside, a delicate shining chain forged by the melted celestial silver of an angel blade linked with a tiny heart inscribed with your initials.

You plucked the chain from its box and twisted in his embrace to fasten it around his neck. Pressing your palm to his chest, you whispered, “So I’m always near to your heart.”

“Thank you,” he reached up to squeeze your hand warmly in his, a rare smile touching his lips and a glimmer of tears in his eyes. He sniffled, suddenly feeling self-conscious at having nothing to give you in return. “I,” but he had an idea, “close your eyes.”

You flashed a confused grin, but nonetheless complied.

A brilliant blue radiance illuminated against your closed eyelids, a gentle rush of wind swirling about the room, rustling the books lining the shelves, sending the papers on the desk fluttering to the floor, tousling your already sleep-mussed hair, and further tangling the sheets.

“Happy anniversary,” you felt the brush of a soft item tickle your shuttered lashes and caress your cheek and collarbone.

Slowly blinking your eyes open, you saw a gleaming blue-black feather held aloft before you between Castiel’s fingertips. Your eyes grew wider still as he took up your hand, placing the quill into your palm and enclosing your fingers one by one around the magnificent angelic plume.


	3. Best Friends

The day Castiel acknowledged the Winchesters as his brothers was the day you jestingly took up the post of best friend left vacant by Dean. Not that family couldn’t also be friends, but you were tired of being third wheel to a wise-ass Winchester and wanted some sort of title of endearment in relation to the angel who meant so much to you. As far as you were concerned, Castiel was your best friend, knowing you better than anyone else ever had or would. Hallmark feature of best friends: some of the best conversations you had with the angel contained no words at all. Like, for instance, that one night when you all trudged home to the bunker, dripping liquefied monster goo after a nest of mutated vampires had the audacity to freaking explode after being beheaded. Castiel, of course, remained pristinely beatific in his tidy trench coat with nary a bit of melted flesh or black sludge marring his vessel. Home safe and mostly intact, you four sat silent and shell-shocked around the kitchen table staring at unopened bottles of beer sweating rings of condensation on the table.

Sam disappeared first, fleeing in the general direction of the locker room showers, likely with the intent to hose himself off and then burn his clothing for good measure. Dean quickly chugged his beer, grimaced and shuddered bodily, then tucked the rest of the six-pack, including yours and Sam’s untouched bottles, into the crook of his arm and bid you adieu. Unasked, Castiel stood to retrieve a mug from the cupboard. He wrangled with the microwave to heat a cup of water for tea – presenting the brewing steaming mug of liquid to your dazed figure on his way out of the kitchen. Reflexively sipping at the cooling tea, you noticed the strong scent of lavender drifting in from the hall after a short time. Pushing the chair back and weakly rising, you followed the alluring fragrance to the only bathtub in the whole of the bunker. Well, not precisely a bathtub, but you’d modified the large tank the Men of Letters used in some sort of a demonic purification ritual to substitute as one. Castiel had drawn you a hot bath, not forgetting to leave a plush robe folded over the edge for you to shrug into after soaking the memory of the gory hunt from your pores.

Squeaky clean, profoundly relaxed, and feeling a tad more human, you meandered the halls toward your room, pausing to peer into room 15, Castiel’s chosen quarters. Sitting on the couch, placed against the wall in lieu of the bed he did not require, the angel gestured for you to enter the room, invitingly patting the empty spot on the couch beside himself. You accepted with a weary smile, shuffling in and flopping down heavily beside him with a sigh. Cas picked up the remote and switched on the television. Navigating the menu for Netflix more swiftly than you recalled him able to, he queued up your favorite show and fished a bag of candy from the recesses of his coat pocket to offer you. Mid-chew, your eyes fluttered shut and your head lolled gently to the warmth of his shoulder before the opening credits even rolled.


	4. Castiel Cooks

The bunker was unusually quiet for a weeknight. You surveyed the visible areas below you from the stair landing, expecting to find Sam studiously bent over a book or scrutinizing his laptop, and a bored Dean flicking wadded balls of paper at Sam’s forehead trying to strike his brother between the eyes. Perhaps also, if you were lucky, a certain blue-eyed angel you were especially fond of presiding over the scene. Instead, the place was empty. “Guys?” you queried the stagnant air of the room. You flinched upon hearing the sounds of struggle from the direction of the kitchen. Reflexively withdrawing the gun tucked in your jean’s waistband, you bounded down the stairs two by two and dashed into the hall, skidding to the far wall in your haste across a puddle of, what was that, holy oil? No, you realized, the fruity scent hitting your nose, olive oil. The oils closely related in all but their combat usefulness in your particular line of work. “Sam! Dean!” you half-shouted, half-groaned, feet slipping as you comically thrust your limbs sideways in a failed struggle to stay upright.

Castiel caught you about the waist a millisecond before you were poised to hit the floor, effortlessly hauling you up and out of the slick pool and into his arms. “Sam and Dean are out for the night,” he stated simply, as if this would clarify everything. Gathering it did not from the questioning gape of your jaw, he continued, “I made you dinner.”

“You what now?” you couldn’t be certain you’d heard him correctly. It sounded like he said he’d been cooking, for you, and you were fairly certain angels didn’t know how to cook. Nevermind Cas, who you’d once witnessed have an entire plaintive conversation with an uncooperative motel coffee maker in an effort to coerce it into brewing a fresh pot.

“I made you dinner,” he repeated, awkwardly releasing his steadying grip at the small of your back and retreating into the steamy atmosphere of the kitchen.

You followed, carefully picking a path through the food detritus littering the floor. Every single available surface and even some of the walls and a spot on the ceiling over the sink were covered with a variety of colorful splatters. They were accented by burnt pans, overflowing bowls, bent utensils, all manner of discarded ends of vegetables, cracked egg shells, half-boiled noodles, crumbs of bread, and you were pretty sure that was the business end of a chicken bobbing ominously in that boiling pot. You blinked several times in disbelief. “Does Dean know you did this to his kitchen?” you murmured aloud the first thought to cross your mind.

“Actually, it was Dean’s idea,” Cas replied nonchalantly, removing a heavenly smelling covered baking dish from the oven. “He thought it would be a good way to demonstrate my interest in moving beyond what I consider to be a very meaningful friendship with you to pursue a more romantic relationship.”

You stared at the back of his darkly curled head, again wondering if your ears were deceiving you. When he turned, brushing a slew of spice bowls and a half-empty sack of flour to the floor to slide the piping hot dish onto the counter in front of you, you noticed for the first time his barely dressed state by angelic standards – wearing only his slacks and white dress shirt, top three buttons unfastened and sleeves tightly rolled up to expose his strapping lower arms.

He uncovered the dish, revealing a perfectly browned game hen surrounded by a nest of caramelized vegetables and perched atop a mouth-watering rice pilaf. Looking up expectantly, his hopeful sky-blue eyes searched yours, “Is it working?”


	5. Rain

Gazing out into the verdant valley from the porch, watching the cold rain pellet the distant sun-kissed grasses and tree tops to rise in a swirling mist to veil the sun and sky above, it was easy to forget the messy endgame of the werewolf hunt in the dilapidated cabin behind you. Holding out your upturned hands, you collected the cool droplets in your sullied palms, letting the refreshing water run in rivulets through your bloodied fingers, trickling down to stain the sleeves of your denim jacket with a faint crimson. You closed your eyes, listening to the gentle patter of rain on the old tin roof of the cabin. This was the best kind of rain. The renewing kind, washing the landscape and your senses in freshness of life.

When you heard the soft flutter of angelic wings over the torrent of water and felt Castiel’s fingertips lightly caress the small of your back, you smiled.

“I came as soon as I could,” he looked around for signs of danger, finding none. “You’re not hurt?” he asked, concern lacing his husky tone, gaze drifting over the spattered blood on your clothing and skin.

“I’m alright,” your lashes flicked open. Spinning, you lazily draped your arms around his neck and placed a feather light kiss of greeting upon his pouting mouth.

“Good,” he smoothed his fingers affectionately through your rain slick hair, drawing you nearer to melt into the warmth of his body. “You should have waited for me.”

“I did,” you snuffled a giggle and smirked, “the wolf didn’t. Damn incorrigible beasts if you ask me.” You observed, tangling your fingers through his curls, that despite having flown to meet you through a downpour, the angel had nary a drop of water dampening his locks or spotting his trench coat. “How did you not get wet flying here in this storm?” you asked, curiosity piqued.

“I swerved to avoid the rain drops,” he stated matter-of-factly. “I suppose that must be why I arrived too late to help.”

Leaning back within the bounds of his encircling embrace, your jaw slackened in astonishment at the astounding feat of such an agile flight. Perceiving a subtle glint of mischief in his enameled blue irises, you endeavored to determine if he was being serious or attempting to be funny. The faint blossoming smile on his lips gave you your answer.


	6. Baking Secrets

Sam and Dean were out for the day – gone on a hunter supply run two states over in search of an elusive spell ingredient which a paranoid store proprietor would not confirm or deny he had in his possession over the phone. Sam logically assumed, since the owner did not deny it outright, that there was a better than piddling chance he had what they needed. Dean saw the trip as an opportunity to visit the bakery next door to the shop which he alleged sold scratch-made brownies better even than your gran’s celebrated super-secret recipe. Not to be outdone, you intended to prepare a batch of your special brownies to prove him wrong. You held the family-size box of Pillsbury brand pre-packaged brownie mix before you and smiled at the grinning doughboy figure on the front. All these years, the ridiculous squealing lump of chef-shaped dough had kept your secret – you actually had no idea how to make brownies from scratch.

“Hello Y/N.”

You jumped at the familiar gravelly voice of the angel, fumbling, then hiding the unopened box behind you and turning to confront him.

Castiel stood at the kitchen threshold, trench coat and arms swaying, curiously narrowing his gaze at your secretive behavior.

“Oh, hey Cas,” you stuttered tensely. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. Sam and Dean are…”

“Driving to Des Moines,” he finished your remark, “I know. I thought perhaps you could use some company in their absence.” Stepping down to enter the room, he strode toward you and peered inquisitively at the baking accoutrements on the counter before casting his bright blue eyes on you. “What are you doing?”

“I, uh, I’m,” you stumbled for a way to stretch the truth and not lie to the angel who you knew would instantly know you were deceiving him. “Can you keep a secret?” you finally settled on making an accomplice of him.

He crooked his head thoughtfully, “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether keeping this confidence would lead to anyone getting hurt.”

“Not keeping it will result in a mortal wound to my pride courtesy of Dean Winchester from which I may never recover,” you offered direly, adding, “I promise you that keeping it harms no one.”

“I believe you.”

“You do?”

“I’ve experienced first-hand how particularly ruthless Dean can be in matters of wounded pride.”

“Great!” you sighed deeply in relief.

Cas focused expectantly on you.

You handed over the box of brownie mix disgracefully, cheeks flushing red in embarrassment.

He turned it over a few times in his broad hands, and arched a perplexed brow, finally asking outright, “What’s so special about this box?”

“That,” you frowned regretfully, gesturing at the box, “is the shameful secret behind my super-secret homemade brownie recipe that Dean loves.”

The angel cracked a rare amused smile.

“Shut up!” you swatted him chidingly on the shoulder, masking your own smile with a sneer, and plucked the box from his grasp. “Adding the walnuts and frosting was my idea, sort of.”

“I didn’t say anything, and I swear to you that I never will,” his smile gentled the usual somberness of his glittering blue gaze. “May I help?”

“Yeah, sure,” you were internally overjoyed at the prospect of the angel’s companionship. In fact, you couldn’t remember ever having spent any quality time alone with him when not working or otherwise distracted by a case. It was almost like your surrogate big brothers were intentionally keeping you apart out of a misplaced sense of protectiveness. You suddenly looked up from opening the box. “Do Sam and Dean know you’re here?”

The angel’s eyes flew wide – his turn to be caught off guard. “They, uh,” he began nervously prying open the carton of eggs, hesitating for a long moment before meeting your searching gaze, “perhaps for the time being we could keep this visit between us.”

You thrust a measuring cup and the bottle of vegetable oil against his chest. “Our secret,” you smiled warmly.


	7. Blanket Snuggles

Woolen beanie. Knit scarf long enough to give the fourth Doctor a run for his money. Long-sleeved T and two layers of thick flannel shirts raided from Dean’s closet. Thermal leggings and a rolled up pair of Sam’s sweatpants. Two pairs of ultra-fluffy socks. And if he was around, you probably would have stolen the trench coat off Castiel’s back if you weren’t convinced it was somehow an integrally attached piece of his vessel.

No, you were not attempting to blend into the testosterone saturated multi-layered team free will fraternity. Rather, the bunker was unbearably cold and Dean strangely refused, despite your best, most pathetic, and entirely sincere pleas for relief, to turn the heat up any higher citing the fact that it was very clearly hotter than Hell in the bunker, and he would know because he’d been there, twice. You knew better than to suggest that Dean remove one or more of his own layers of clothing lest he think you were hitting on him. So, defeated, you fled the library to your room, threatening as you departed to light a fire in the trash bin for heat using the Men of Letter’s irreplaceable and never-ending stockpile of casefiles for fuel. Sam wasn’t sure if you were joking or not.

Shivering beneath the thickest blanket you could find in the sundries storage room, you heard a light knocking on your door. “Come in,” you muttered numbly, hoping it was Sam or Dean come to take pity on your frigid soul and tell you they turned up the thermostat. Peeking over the fringed edge of the woolen coverlet, you saw the backlit outline of Castiel observing you from the doorway. “Hey Cas.” You could have sworn your breath misted in the cold air.

Seeing movement beneath the lumpy pile of fabric, he entered the room, huskily murmuring, “Hello Y/N. Dean suggested I check in to see how you’re feeling.”

“Cold, still cold,” your teeth clattered in answer.

Cas crossed the small space to stand at the side of the bed, peering down at you with concern clouding his blue gaze, “He thinks you may be getting ill.” He reached out a palm to press your forehead, “You do seem very cold, but not feverish. What can I do to help?”

Maybe it was the cold numbing your inhibitions, maybe it was the open-ended nature of his question, but the words rolled off your tongue of their own volition, “You could crawl under this blanket with me to snuggle for warmth.” Feeling a heated rush of blood redden your cheeks, you congratulated yourself for not making a far more explicit request of the angel.

If the suggestion came as a surprise, he gave no outward indication as he stared calmly back at you. He shrugged the trench coat off his broad shoulders. The garment, as it turned out to your delight, was not actually a permanently adhered accessory. His suit coat followed. Then the blue-striped silken tie, loosened and tugged free from his collar with a sharp snapping sound. You heard the soles of his shoes kick off beneath the bed. Lifting the blanket, he settled awkwardly and inflexibly beside you. Angling his neck to regard you, he asked, tone wavering uncertainly, “Is this alright?”

You wanted to answer that it was more than alright – it was downright amazing, but the fact remained that the only part of you considerably warmer with the decorous distance between your bodies were your hotly burning cheeks. “Well, uh, snuggling usually involves a little more direct contact,” you blushed, tentatively shifting and rolling against his body, snaking a hand across his torso. “Like this.”

Relaxing, he coiled an arm around your shoulders to nestle you to his chest. “Like this?” he echoed your words, eyes seeking yours for approval.

“Exactly like this,” you sighed into his shirt, basking contentedly in his radiant heat. Warmed to the heart, you drifted into easeful slumber in the embrace of the softly smiling seraph.


	8. First Christmas

“What’s that smell?” Dean scrunched his nose at the foul odor permeating the air of the bunker.

“Y/N’s Christmas gift,” Cas answered, eyes fixed on the ancient text spread across his lap.

Dean’s mouth twisted comically with distaste, “Trust me Cas, whatever that is, she doesn’t want it.”

Cas peered up from the book, affect set placidly in the absolute certainty of Dean’s wrongness in the matter, “She said quite specifically that she wanted a hippopotamus for Christmas.”

“What?”

“A hippopotamus,” Cas repeated.

“I heard what you said, but what the hell buddy? Why?” Dean grimaced.

“It’s a song,” Sam muttered as he entered from the hall with a bowl of cereal balanced in one hand and his laptop in the other.

“A song?” Cas closed the tome and raised a perplexed brow as Sam seated himself at the table.

“Nevermind the song. Where are you keeping it?” Dean planted a hand on the table to steady himself in preparation of the words he expected the angel would utter in response.

“The garage,” Cas stated nonchalantly, ignoring Dean’s edict to stare in disbelief at Sam. “A song? There was no music playing when the wish crossed her mind.”

“In the garage?” Dean staggered forward, glancing at the hall leading to the garage egress, voice scratching hoarsely in his throat. “With baby?”

“It’s a Christmas carol,” Sam explained. “She probably just had the song stuck in her head.”

“I see,” Cas rose, carefully setting the book down, glancing abashedly around the library. He settled a repentant blue gaze on Dean. “I don’t recommend going in there, Dean. I’ve explained the situation to the beast, but it’s still quite understandably upset.”

“Upset, who?” you wandered into the room, stealing a bit of cereal from Sam’s bowl and ruffling his hair to playfully annoy him further. “And what is that God-awful smell?” You rounded the table to stand on your tip-toes to peck a tender kiss to the angel’s stubbly cheek.

“I swear, if that thing so much as breathed on baby…” Dean raised a threatening finger at the angel, body vibrating with a barely contained rage.

“She’s not a thing, Dean,” Cas calmingly held up his palm.

“What are you talking about?” your focus bounced between the contrite angel and the incensed Winchester.

Sam smirked, humming the tune, “Cas thought you wanted a hippopotamus for Christmas. That only a hippopotamus would do…”

“You didn’t!” you gasped, clutching Cas’ trench coat sleeve and dissolving into a fit of giggles.

The angel’s brow knotted with sincerity, eyes softening earnestly as he searched your countenance, “I wanted our first Christmas together to be everything you dreamed of.”

“Oh it will be,” you beamed, still laughing. “And more.”

Wrinkles of his forehead relaxing, the angel permitted a small grin to grace his pouting mouth.


	9. Kitten

You found the document you were hunting in the last storeroom you searched, on the last low level shelf, in the last dingy box, in the last dog-eared file folder you checked. Glancing over the mostly redacted and totally useless yellowed typed account, you sensed it wasn’t nearly as crucial to the case Sam and Dean were working as they had earlier led you to believe when they departed and insisted you remain behind to find this all important antiquated fragment of the Men of Letters record they absolutely needed to guarantee their success. Sitting there on the floor, cross-legged, dust-covered, scowling at the piece of paper, back aching from sifting through boxes all day, it slowly dawned on you that this was the brothers’ miserably maddening way of keeping you safe and sound in the bunker. Thoroughly frustrated, you punched the innocent box beside you, denting the cardboard with your fist and sending it careering across the cement floor to crash into a pair of familiar black-booted feet.

“Hello, Y/N.”

Your gaze travelled up the legs attached to those feet, pausing at the swinging hem of a trench coat, following the striped tie to up to a curiously cocked unshaven countenance flaunting a stunning and inquisitively squinting set of brightly shining blues. “Oh, hey Cas,” you mumbled, tossing aside the paper with a sigh. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

The angel meowed in response. More specifically, something in his pocket wriggled and mewed plaintively. His brow knotted in visible vexation.

“Is that a kitten in your pocket?” you asked, scrambling to your feet, navigating the maze of discarded files to assault the angel with unbounded enthusiasm. Somewhere in the back of your mind you were grateful Dean wasn’t around to finish your query with the cheeky, _or are you just happy to see me?_

Planned surprise decisively ruined by the impatient feline, Castiel rolled his beautiful eyes and reached inside his trench to pluck a tiny fluffy ball of grey-blue from the recesses therein. “She was supposed to keep quiet,” Cas glared chidingly at the betraying bundle of fur who only happily purred louder, utterly content in her treachery. “We had an agreement.”

“Oh my god, she’s adorable!” you squealed, grabbing the squirming kitten and clutching the soft bundle of fuzz to your neck while humming in pure joy. You held her before you to look at her, an incoherent stream of baby talk syllables spilling from your lips as you doted on the rosy pink nose, twitching white whiskers, bushy flicking ears, and goggled over the expressive sapphire eyes she possessed. “She’s perfect Cas! Thank you!” You breezed by the angel in a flurry of kitten focused affection without a second glance, missing the rare small smile lighting up his features, and disappeared into the hall.

Cas stood there for a moment, smile fading in the dim storeroom, staring in bewilderment at the box still at his feet, wondering where exactly his plan had gone awry. When he picked out the kitten at the shelter that morning, he did so because he knew it would make you happy and he enjoyed making you happy. At the time he did not consider the possibility that you would abandon his company forthwith in favor of the feline’s companionship. As with the aftermath of many situations he involved himself in, he found he had some serious regrets. “You’re welcome,” he muttered gruffly to the unsympathetic box. Mood defeated, the angel followed the incessant burbling nonsensical coo of your voice through the bunker to the threshold of your bedroom.

“There you are!” you exclaimed, as though Cas had been the one to unceremoniously desert you. “You have to see this!”

Castiel glanced over his shoulder to be sure your remark wasn’t directed at some other hapless being who happened to be standing stealthily behind him.

“Come in,” you urged with a wave, focus intent upon the kitten on the bed playfully pouncing on and repeatedly attacking the dotted pattern on the comforter. “Hurry up!” You left the teeny creature for a moment to haul the unresponsive angel into the room by his coat sleeve. “You have to see the way she flattens her ears and wags her bottom before she ambushes the dots. It’s so cute!” You knelt on the floor to more closely observe her antics.

Cas perched tentatively on the edge of the bed, keeping a wary distance from the duplicitous feline. In two rollicking leaps and a somersaulting roll she was in his lap, upside down, swatting at his tie. Paw poised mid-swipe, she gazed piercingly into the angel’s eyes, blinked slowly, and began to purr. “Why is she vibrating?” Cas asked, eyes growing wide with alarm.

“She’s purring,” you grinned, scratching her chin as she yawned and stretched her stubby legs overhead, extending her claws and then melting into the warmth of the angel’s thighs.

“Oh,” Cas murmured, mimicking your action to gently pet the velvety smooth fuzz between her ears. The little furball’s eyelids sank blissfully shut as she napped.

“I just thought of a name,” you beamed, rising to sit on the bed beside the angel. Threading your fingers through his dark locks, ruffling his hair affectionately, pecking a tender kiss upon his stubbly cheek, you nuzzled his shoulder and whispered, “Cassie. After the sweetest angel I know.”

Castiel, sometime angel of the Lord, current celestial cat bed, blushed.


	10. The Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sister!Winchester Reader

The pads of Castiel’s bare feet trod soundlessly as he navigated the bunker hallway outside Sam and Dean’s respective closed bedroom doors. Clad in nothing but crumpled white boxers, the angel was on his way back to your room bearing the glass of ice water you requested after your most recent amorous sortie together. He stopped dead in his tracks when Dean’s door creaked open. In his haste to return to your side, he’d failed to listen for movement in the brothers’ rooms before entering the hall.

The elder Winchester clomped into view. A Men of Letters robe was sloppily tied about his waist, his green eyes half-closed as he swallowed the finale of an epic yawn and probed his thick sleep-parched tongue around his mouth dryly several times. Blinking his dull focus upon the wide-eyed deer-caught-in-the-headlights countenance of the angel and the gently sloshing glass of water, he reached out, wordlessly took the glass, and emptied it in a single chug. “Thanks,” he muttered sleepily, wiping the stray drips of water that dribbled onto his chin with his sleeve and offering Cas the empty glass.

“You’re welcome,” Cas responded with a curt nod of his head.

Dean stepped backward, turning in a shuffle to reenter the sanctity of his darkened bedroom. Before Castiel could finish exhaling a sigh of relief at not being interrogated for his state of undress and strange presence in the hall at the odd hour, Dean pivoted and held up a pointed finger. “What are you doing half-naked in the hall conveniently holding a glass of water anyway?” He peered warily up and down the corridor. “You’re not always out here when we’re sleeping, are you? Cause that would be weird, even for you.”

The angel pursed his lips and glanced guiltily to the side. On the long list of things he’d rather not do in his underwear at 3 o’clock in the morning in the middle of the bunker hall, revealing the fact that you and he were having sex and trying to keep in a secret from the overbearing brothers was decidedly number one. He wasn’t going to lie, and there was no avoiding involving you in his answer, “Y/N was thirsty.”

“Humph,” Dean hummed, bobbing his head slowly as the wheels of alertness and higher reasoning spun into gear.

Sam’s door swung wide and he lumbered into the hall, fingers roughly rubbing his face and taming his slumber-ruffled mane. He stretched his lanky arms overhead and blinked wearily between Dean and Cas. “What’s going on?” he murmured in a husky tone.

“Y/N was thirsty,” Dean grumbled, casting a suspicious glower at the angel who refused to look at him.

“Huh?” Sam squinted at Cas, the surprise arch of his brow suggesting it only just registered to him that the angel was practically naked.

“What are you doing in her room at this hour of the night?” Dean cleared his throat with such violent force it garnered Castiel’s undivided attention.

The angel’s jaw set sternly, blue eyes flashing defiantly in response to Dean’s harsh manner. “Well Dean, there isn’t a bed in my room,” he sassed.

“I thought you didn’t need one. You don’t sleep,” Sam proposed helpfully, unclear in his exhaustion who he was helping or why it mattered. He scratched his washboard stomach through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“No, I don’t sleep,” Cas rolled his eyes and exhaled sharply, “but Y/N finds post-coital cuddling more comfortable in a bed.”

Sam’s expression went wide, mouth agog in shock. “You, you’re, our…,” the coherency of the thought slipped inarticulate from his tongue.

Dean snorted and doubled-over in a seizure of sardonic laughter.

“Why are you laughing?” Cas glared at him.

“Cause I could have sworn you just said you’re sleeping with our sister,” Dean’s jocularity dissolved in a choking cough as he straightened his frame, supporting himself with a palm pressed to the doorway.

Cas cocked his head to curiously regard Dean, “Did I not make it clear that we are doing more than sleeping?”


	11. Use Your Tongue

“Night Sam! Night Dean!” you called down the hall as the boys disappeared into their motel room.

Dean swiped his fingers across his brow, saluting you before he disappeared, mouthing the words, ‘Good luck.’ The uncomfortable atmosphere of the car ride back to the motel told him Cas was in one of those brooding moods again fretting over human fragility. He empathized fully, knowing from experience that Cas could be a real dick when he cared deeply for you.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, turning to observe the pouting angel perched on the edge of the bed. Shutting the door and leaning heavily against it as you crossed your arms, you asked, “Are we going to talk about what happened?” Castiel’s silent treatment of you was getting on your last nerve and you weren’t going to tolerate him flipping out every time you took a risk doing your job any longer. It was the second time this week alone, and you hated fighting with almost as much passion as you loved the angel.

Celestial patience proved especially pointed what with his penchant for concerned seething over situations and people he could not hope to control. He glanced up at you, blue eyes narrowing when they met yours and flitting away in frustration when his regard dropped to the blood-stained gash cleaving the fabric of the shirt over your stomach.

You pressed your lips into a thin line. “I said I was sorry,” you muttered, shaking your head as you crossed the small space to sit on the bed beside him. The cheap mattress bounced beneath your weight, jostling the angel. “I don’t understand what the big deal is - you were right there. You saved me. I’m fine, look, see,” you noted, prodding the flesh over your perfectly okay previously mortally wounded liver. “What can I do to prove it to you, to make it up to you?” you asked, resting a palm on his thigh.

His nostrils flared subtly in thought as he studied your hand, a small smirk playing at his mouth. He pivoted to look at you, the uncharacteristic smirk sensuously blooming as he gave you an exaggerated wink, gruffly suggesting, “Maybe you could use your tongue.”

You stared at him wide-eyed for a few seconds before doubling over into a fit of body shuddering laughter that shook the entire bed. “Where-,” you choked on a chuckle, “-the hell did that come from?”

The angel’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment, hesitating to admit, “Dean said the best part of resolving interpersonal conflict is the make up sex. I thought-”

“-you’d maybe like me to use my tongue?” you finished his admission.

He nodded, bashfully avoiding your amused expression, missing its contemplative shift into salacious seriousness.

You shrugged, biting your lip, quirking a brow, simpering, “Well, okay then.” Swinging a leg to straddle the astonished seraph’s lap, you bumped his chest with both palms and pushed him to the bed.


	12. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural Season 13 spoiler warning!

“Hey guys,” you muttered halfheartedly, not looking up from your book as two looming figures entered the kitchen in your periphery.

“Hey,” Sam returned your greeting, smile threatening to leap off his face, gesturing at Jack as he approached the table. “You two manage to hold down the fort while we were gone?”

“You mean the bunker?” Jack asked flatly. “It’s my understanding that gravity takes care of that.” Focus shifting to the figure dallying at the threshold, Jack stood up frenetically, a cry of surprise emerging from his throat and a grin of joyful recognition beaming across his face.

Sam calmingly gripped Jack’s shoulder, saying, “Later. They need to talk.”

You squinted up at Sam in confusion, wondering why Jack was so happy to see Dean, who he believed hated him, and what you and Dean had to talk about that you couldn’t share with the rest of the class.

“Y/N,” the familiar gravel tone of Castiel called out from the doorway, vibrating you to your very soul.

Your regard flew to a man bearing a striking resemblance to your dearly departed angelic love. The angel who was stabbed in the back before your eyes by his own brother. The angel whose vessel you watched burn through a blear of tears. The angel who God hadn’t returned to you despite an endless stream of prayers. The angel whose memory persisted wherever you looked like a hallucination or mirage forever out of reach. Book faltering in your fingers and falling to the table, you shakily rose. “You can’t be, you’re-” You searched Sam’s aspect, his smile only deepening as he bobbed his head to silently reassure you this was real.

Stepping down into the kitchen and moving toward you, Castiel glanced away for only a moment to smile at Jack as the nephilim and Sam moved past him to give you your privacy.

“Cas?” your voice quivered.

He nodded, eyes brimming wet as he stopped mere inches from your trembling frame.

You hesitated, reaching out to caress a flap of his trench coat. The fabric and cut were different - the tie too - but the remarkable blue eyes shining their tender affection upon your countenance, those were the same.

“W-where? H-how?” you stuttered, cheeks staining with tears. Pressing your palm flat to his chest, closing your eyes, you felt beneath your flesh the undeniable steady heart beat and radiant warmth of his vessel.

“It doesn’t matter,” he whispered, “all that matters is that I promise never to leave you again.” He laid one hand warmly upon yours, twining your fingers together, his other hand drifting to the small of your back to pull you sobbing against his body as he kissed the top of your head.


	13. Fruitcake

“Is it good?” you peered across the table expectantly as Castiel chewed a mouthful of fruitcake - the much maligned dense overly sweet yet somehow bitter holiday dessert you were convinced on an annual basis you could miraculously transform into a delicious treat and had spent the whole afternoon baking and which you badgered the angel into tasting when he made the hapless mistake of venturing into the kitchen.

Continuing to fold the gooey glob of cake between his teeth and tongue, the angel’s wide eyes gleamed as he gave you an emphatic nod and attempted to swallow to avoid giving you a verbal answer which, in order not to hurt your feelings, would have been a complete lie.

To Castiel’s relief, Sam chose that very moment to wander into your baking trap from the hall in pursuit of sustenance. Instantly realizing the dire situation he had unwittingly walked into to, he froze and attempted to stealthily step backward to avoid your notice.

“Sammy!” you exclaimed, catching sight of the younger Winchester. “Come over here and try this!”

Your attention directed elsewhere, Cas seized the opportunity to spit the thick wad of cake into his open palm and hide it in a pocket of his coat for later disposal.

Taking several reluctant short strides nearer, pretending to only just realize what it was you were doing, Sam feigned a smile, sarcastically noting, “Oh, great. More fruitcake.”

“Cas says it’s good!” you boasted, handing over a pristine white plate marred by a thin slab of the golden brown crumb interspersed with candied fruits, nuts, and doused with extra rum for good measure.

Sam sniffed the plate, eyes watering and clamping shut as he flinched from the overpowering alcoholic assault against his senses. Setting the plate clinking to the table and pushing it away with one finger, he arched a skeptical brow at the angel.

“What?” you asked, staring between him and Cas.

“You do know he can only taste molecules, right?” Sam pointed out.

Smile fading, you cast a hopeful glance to Cas, fully anticipating he would jump to your defense.

Refusing to meet your searching gaze, the angel’s regard dropped apologetically to the table. “Sam is correct,” he admitted, “and I’m afraid these particular molecules were most definitely never meant to co-mingle in one’s mouth.”

“What’s goin’ on-oh! Fruitcake!” Dean hopped down the stairs, green eyes glinting when they settled on your faulty confection. He snatched up Sam’s rejected plate and enthusiastically dug into the slice of cake with a fork.

Cas squinted his eyes, chin tilting in bewilderment.

Sam’s face contorted in a wince of horror.

“This is great!” Dean said as he chewed, bits of crumb escaping the corners of his grinning mouth. “What?” He shoveled the final bite into his face and ceased chewing.

“I suppose the proverb is true,” Cas mused, “there really is no accounting for taste.”

Sam snorted a laugh.

You simply smiled and cut Dean another piece.


	14. Good Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adult/NSFW/18+ reader content in this chapter!

“Mmmph,” Castiel awoke with a blissful moan to the delicate caress of your fingertips tracing intricate patterns into the sensitive expanse of exposed flesh below his navel.

“Rise and shine, angel,” you simpered from your position straddling his thighs, bending to plant a lingering open-mouthed kiss upon each of his muscle-padded hip bones.

Glancing down at you, unfocused blue eyes hooded, a deep growl shook his chest as your ticklish touch teased lower along the defined V line of his hips, his skin tingling with pleasure beneath your nails, erect cock already at full attention and twitching against his belly.

Sleeping was a necessary evil nowadays for the angel and his fading borrowed grace. The vulnerability of his vessel in such a state and the unaccounted for passage of time made him especially uneasy when he closed his eyes at night. And yet, the reassurance of your warm embrace as he drifted off, the comfort of rousing each morning to find the human he loved more than anything else in creation beside him, and the unblemished promise of each new day, balanced any inconvenience this involuntary unconsciousness presented. Then there was the unexpected novelty of _morning wood_ and your ever eager willingness to stir him to wakeful awareness in the most pleasurable of ways.

Sliding yourself down his body, you peered up the plane of his torso as he inhaled raggedly in anticipation. Flashing him a coquettish grin when his blackening pupils locked on yours, you licked a sensuously dragging stripe from his balls to the tip of his cock, swirling your velvety tongue around the hypersensitive glans before taking his length into the inviting wet warmth of your mouth.

Throat husky with a combination of grogginess and arousal, a gasping groan of your name escaped his lips. Reaching out to tangle his fingers through your hair, his head lolled heavy to the pillow. If nothing else in the universe worked in his favor today, this, at least, was going to be a very _good_ morning.


	15. Wingman

“Trust me.” Speaking in a gruff tone barely audible enough to overcome the din of conversation and music in the raucous bar, Dean thrust a motel room key tucked between a few folded bills at Castiel’s chest.

Cas squinted at the hunter in the dim light. “I don’t understand.” Head cocking quizzically aslant, the angel’s focus flitted between Dean’s staid expression and the wad of cash he was offering. “Why would I need a motel room?”

“Because-” Dean arched a brow at the far counter where you were busy flirting with the bartender, peaking over your shoulder to flash the angel a toothy smile and hoping to ignite some sort of divine jealous fire in his being. “-Y/N is about one strawberry daiquiri away from throwing herself at you. And when that happens,” Dean continued,” Sammy and I have every intention of being on the other side of the state line.”

“Why would she-” The angel’s features furrowed in confusion, muscles tensing in concentrated thought as he pondered why in creation one alcoholic beverage too many would compel you to throw yourself at him and for what purpose.

Dean rolled his brilliant green eyes, asking in exasperation, “Really? She’s been making doe eyes at you since she started working cases with us three months ago and you don’t have the faintest idea why?”

The angel’s jaw went lax as the realization of what Dean was suggesting dawned on him. “I-I think I understand.” Cas’ posture stiffened, flustered eyes blowing wide as he cast a furtive glance your way. “What do I do?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Dean smirked, clapping Cas roughly on the back as he shoved the key into his trench pocket for safekeeping. “Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Attention fixed on the angel’s bright blues from across the room, you hopped off the bar stool and began to stalk toward him.

Cas gulped at your lusting gaze, throat bobbing, muttering, “That does very little to narrow down the list of possibilities, Dean.”

The Winchester remained uncharacteristically silent in retort.

“Dean?” When the angel turned, the only sign of his friend was the exit door swinging shut, crooked shutters clattering against the glass.


	16. Ouch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Casifer X Reader

“If you don’t shut your trap and wipe that damned smirk off your face right now, I _will_ do it for you!” you snarled through clenched teeth at Lucifer who was, at present, quite smugly occupying Castiel’s vessel. Hell, the only reason you were even putting up with the verbal vitriol and psychological bullshit being bandied about by Chuck’s favorite fallen son as you infiltrated the gates of Heaven was to ensure Cas’ safety. Not that your angel seemed to care about it much himself in the first place, having said _yes_ to the devil.

“Oh please-” His lip curled in a cynical smile. “You wouldn’t dare hit this pretty little face of his you love so dearly.” He caressed Cas’ cheek, chuckling, the sinister sound gurgling in his raspy throat like the warbling of a dying bird. Lucifer didn’t need to remark on the obvious hollowness of your threat - being a mere human, you were the equivalent of a celestial gnat in terms of the fleeting level of annoyance you could actually cause him.

Exhaling a measured breath and silently counting to ten, you considered his insinuation. After all, he _was_ using his archangel mojo to magnanimously keep you alive at the moment - living humans not meant to walk the halls of Heaven - so you should probably be acting a tiny bit more grateful for the fact your soul was still firmly entrenched in your corporeal body. Shrugging, you decided he was definitely wrong about what you would and wouldn’t do. And you were pretty sure Cas would forgive you for whatever happened next. “I _said_ , shut-”

“ _Manners_!” he scolded, shouting over you, making a tisk-tisk gesture with an outstretched finger. “At the very least, you could say, _please_.” He scratched Cas’ unshaven chin, eyes twinkling in amusement as he cast his gaze upward in thought.

You snorted and rolled your eyes. Defiantly crossing your arms over your chest, foot stomping the floor, you braced for the snide comment that was surely forthcoming.

“Though I’d _much_ rather see you on your knees begging for it-”

Sucking in a sharp breath through the nose, you swung back your arm and smacked him full force across the jaw with an open palm. The harsh snapping momentum of your skin striking his flesh reverberated off the smooth white walls.

Borrowed blues snapping closed at the force of your fury, his insulted cheek flushed rosy pink. “Ouch,” he grunted, biting his lower lip, mouth convulsing in a conflicted simpering smile.

If you didn’t know better, you’d have thought just then that the devil inside your angel was a little bit turned on.


	17. Neck

Castiel loves to lavish kisses upon your neck. More specifically, the angel is enthralled by the pulse point just beneath your jaw – the tender target of worship running along the soft column of your throat.

Bodies pressed together chest to chest, hovering over your shoulder while you read in the bunker’s library, arms tangled around your waist from behind to hug you to his torso, beside you in the backseat of Impala, curled up in his arms as you slumber – whatever position you find yourselves in, this favored spot is always an accessible temptation for his lips to give in to, and one he simply cannot resist.

He adores the way your body flushes with radiant heat when he leans in, his calloused fingertips gently brushing aside your hair to expose your neck to the warm tingling caress of his breath on the goose bump-prickled expanse. Inhaling deep, he is intoxicated by the residual scent of shampoo mingling with your natural musky perfume.

Nose nuzzling the focus of his affection first, a small reverent smile dances upon his mouth when you giggle, his unshaven chin tickling your sensitive skin to elicit a tune melodic and beautiful to perceive. Breathing out your name, sacred Enochian words of veneration whispered into your flesh, his pliant parted lips attach to your neck, tongue darting to delight in your sweet taste.

Lids heavy, sapphire eyes shuttering in bliss, his angelic heart quickens in time to the leap of your pulse fluttering beneath his kiss. In this tender moment, he has never felt more alive.


	18. Tie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sister!Winchester Reader

You meandered past the library threshold for the fifth time in less than an hour, pausing this lap around to slump against the doorway. Sam and Dean were still in there, up to their elbows in research and going nowhere fast by the looks of it. Files and laptops lay scattered across the table you and a certain blue-eyed angel were sprawled across yourselves not so very long ago when your brothers unexpectedly, and thankfully quite boisterously, arrived home. Your focus darted along the shelves, dipping into the alcove corners, searching lampshades, eyes flitting anywhere a certain missing intimate article of clothing might conceal itself during a hasty retreat.

“Fuck it,” you muttered under your breath, entering the space. Frustration coursed fiery through your veins for multiple reasons, the least of which being the potential of Sam or Dean to stumble upon your ripped pair of lace panties themselves and the subsequent overly protective brotherly interrogation that would inevitably follow such a discovery. Mostly you fumed over their rude interruption of your amorous affair with the angel and the resultant denial of satisfying certain pent up needs.

“Hey sis,” Sam greeted you warmly over his laptop.

“Sammy!” You grinned, scampering toward him, light laughter bubbling in your throat as you ruffled your fingers through his hair, playfully disheveling it in the manner you knew pissed him off the most as payback. “You guys find anything?” You avoided Dean’s green gaze – your older brother always having had a keen sense of when you were trying to hide something from him.

Dean smirked at Sam’s reaction, chuckling along with you.

Sam scowled and tried to smooth his tangled locks, huffing in answer, “Not yet.”

You exhaled with a hum, relaxing into the seat at the end of the table and grabbing for a pencil and unused pile of paper.

Amusement fading, Dean kept on looking at you like he knew something was going on even though you knew he couldn’t possible know. You and Cas were careful. Except for the stupid pair of lost underwear. For all you knew Cas grabbed them and you had nothing to worry about.

You dared a glance up at him, forcing an innocent half-smile under his scrutiny. “Anything I can do to help?” You poked the pencil eraser into your cheek, endeavoring to appear casual.

Dean’s mouth parted as he took a deep breath, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, you seen Cas around?”

Your smile faltered. You dropped the pencil on purpose as a distraction. Diving under the table after it, you frantically scanned the floor for your undies.

“Hello Dean.” Castiel appeared in the doorway, curtly nodding at your brothers. “Sam. Y/N-” His blues settled on the curve of your ass, currently the only part of you visible as you crawled beneath the table, tongue darting out to wet his dry lips.

Dean cleared his throat in reprimand of the angel’s blatant stare.

Cas’ attention decorously lifted to the ceiling.

You popped up on your knees and triumphantly held the pencil aloft, regard flashing to the angel. The angel not wearing the signature striped blue tie that complemented so well the remarkable color of his eyes. The angel whose skin was flushing beet red from his neck to his ears. You followed his rapt gaze upward.

On the chandelier – the ugly, metal, gothic eyesore overhanging the library that all of you now stared at with a whole new appreciation for its ghastly design – draped the angel’s silk tie along with your lost panties dangling precariously beside it. Your secret relationship with the angel had literally been aired.


	19. Puppy

From his vantage point in the rear seat of the parked Impala, Castiel caught sight of a curious crumpled box precipitously flopping near the edge of the curb on the other side of the highway, the word _FREE_ written in bold block letters on a flap. Pushing open the door, he headed over to investigate.

Immersed in research, Sam vaguely acknowledged the angel’s exit, assuming he was going to find you or Dean to see what was taking so long.

You emerged from the Gas-N-Sip alongside the elder Winchester, bag of assorted snacks which you’d spent the last 10 minutes arguing with him over the merits of hanging from the crook of your arm as you twisted the top off a bottle of sweet tea.

Dean began filling the gas tank, shooting you a disapproving scowl. He still didn’t think Good & Plenty licorice jellies were particularly _good_ , which is probably why there were always _plenty_ of them leftover. Mike and Ike fruit jellies on the other hand were, in his ever-so-humble opinion, a thing of beauty.

Gulping a sip of the cold sugary beverage, your focus drifted with choked alarm to the angel dodging speeding traffic with a dingy cardboard box balanced in his arms. He made it safely across the nearest lane before you could swallow and cry out.

Returning to the car, he gently plopped the box on the hood, reaching inside to extract an adorable wriggling puppy from within – its tiny tail wagging lazily side to side as he held it up before him. The pup yawned and sleepily licked his scruffy face, Cas’ nose scrunching and eyes crinkling in response.

You leaned over the hood, looking into the box, squealing in delight as you lifted out another pup, pure white and fuzzier than the last, clutching it to your chest and cooing.

Peering up at the commotion through the windshield, Sam put down his computer and hopped out of the car to pick up a puppy of his own, tucking the squirming little mass of cuteness into the crook of his neck and laughing airily as it licked his neck.

“No,” Dean stated gruffly when he realized what was going on. “That is, just, no.”

You all glared at him in a manner accusing him of varying degrees of heartlessness and cruelty.

“Come on Dean,” you whined, “have a little heart.”

“Yeah, Dean, don’t be a jerk,” Sam teased.

“They need our help,” Cas pointed out, expression earnest.

The lone puppy left in the box howled forlornly.

Dean rolled his eyes and tentatively peeked inside the box.

Spotting Dean, the mangy and matted critter barked once and excitedly wagged its body.

“Okay,” Dean conceded, features softening, “but only until we can find them homes.”

“I’m naming mine Ghost,” you announced, ducking into the back seat and totally disregarding Dean’s caveat.

“We’re not keeping one!” Dean reiterated, plucking out the remaining puppy and tossing aside the empty box.

Cas looked down and smiled to himself at Dean’s elaborate show of annoyance.

“What are you smiling about?” Dean leered, the scrappy puppy cradled in his arm playfully bristling and growling to back him up. Dean couldn’t help but chuckle at the gumption of the little beast before quickly remembering to wipe the grin off his face.

“I think we’re keeping _at least_ one.” The angel shrugged, knowing the Winchester had a much bigger heart than he let on.


	20. Flowers

Castiel frowned in concentration as he studied the gorgeous array of color laid out before him – bouquets of bold crimson roses, sunny bunches of golden yellow gerbera daisies, dainty sprays of deep purple forget-me-nots ringed in halos of delicate ivory baby’s breath. The frown intensified to to furrow the line of his brow, bright blue eyes reflecting the myriad of warm hues of the assorted arrangements of fragrant lilies, colorful carnations, multi-stemmed chrysanthemums, exotic orchids, and everything in between.

It wasn’t the difficulty of choosing from amongst the varied blooms that stymied him, it was the whole contradictory symbolism in general of giving you – the human he professed to love more than anything else in creation – a beautiful gift destined in a very short time to wither and die as a demonstration of his enduring devotion.

A smiling florist in a neat green apron approached, inquiring in a peppy tone, “Are you looking to buy for someone special today?”

The angel blinked, shifting his focus to intently regard the woman. “Yes, very special,” he murmured, gesturing at the display, “but I don’t understand the point.”

Her smile dithered in confusion.

He continued, a solemn edge to his voice, “These blossoms began dying the moment they were cut. Today they are fresh and beautiful, but with each passing day they will fade until their vibrancy is only a distant memory.”

Expression widening in alarm, she glanced around as if searching for help.

“Who was it that decided such a morbid gift best expressed the sentiment of love?”

None of her co-workers were in the immediate vicinity. Her training had done nothing to prepare her for this. She passingly wondered if she were on a candid camera show and reached up to reflexively smooth her hair.

Cas gazed steadily at her, head tilting and blue eyes narrowing in patient expectation of an answer – her apron, after all, indicated in curling script she was a _Floral Expert_.

“I, uh-” she stuttered, mouth agape, hand extending to meekly indicate the far wall. “Perhaps you’d like to peruse our selection of fine imported Belgian chocolates instead?”


	21. Roadtrip

When Castiel had his wings he could transport from point A to point B in the blink of an eye and with so much precision he avoided, on more than one occasion, trouncing on the unsuspecting innocent insect occupying his landing spot. Without his wings, he managed, with unfortunate regularity, to get hopelessly lost even with the assistance of a GPS. Which is why you now found yourself in the passenger seat of his rickety beige jalopy in the company of an increasingly agitated angel.

Throwing the clutch with more force than necessary to park along the dirt roadside, eye on the gas tank needle hovering near empty, he stretched across your lap to rifle through the glovebox for the map he was certain had to be in there. It wasn’t, although he insisted on checking again just to convince himself of the fact. He slumped against the seat with a defeated sigh, apologizing as he squinted straight ahead into the final vanishing rays of the setting sun. “I’m sorry.”

You couldn’t be sure if he was apologizing to you or the regrettable splatters of insect innards decorating the windshield – carapaces backlit and gleaming like glitter in the dimming golden light. Deciding on the former being more likely, you reached out to touch his leg. “It’s okay, Cas.”

“It’s not,” he grumbled, thoroughly vexed with himself. “This was supposed to be a relaxing weekend roadtrip to the lake for you.”

“For both of us,” you corrected, squeezing his thigh and thinking he was kind of adorable when he was angry.

He stared out the window into a non-descript field, an old farmhouse disintegrating amid a copse of unkempt apple trees, lamenting, “I don’t think we’re even in Kansas anymore.”

You burst into a fit of laughter.

Watching you, the angel cracked a small smile at your reaction to his choice of words. Recognizing the unintended joke, he chuckled lightly at himself.

Amused tears pooling under your eyes, gasping for breath, you jostled his leg. “Come on, let’s go for a walk.” You hopped out of the truck before he could lodge a protest. Rubbing your arms briskly against the cool autumn air, you made a beeline for the abandoned farmhouse and the promising scent of ripening apples.

Cas quickly caught up, shrouding your shoulders with his trench coat for warmth.

You paused to peck a grateful kiss to his cheek. “Thanks, angel.” Your heated breath dissolved in a white puff in the air between you.

He nodded, the same small smile still teasing at his mouth as he clasped your hand in his own.

You tugged him onward.

Despite its decrepit appearance, the home had been built to withstand the trials and tribulations of time and the elements. Flecks of bright turquoise paint clung intrepidly to the hardwood siding. Climbing the stairs, you leaned over the railing to pluck a tempting round red apple from an overhanging limb with the angel’s arm wound protectively around your waist just in case the railing wasn’t as sturdy as it appeared. The skin of the apple snapped crisply when you bit into it, juice spraying your mouth, the flesh firm and sweet.

Cas followed you closely as you explored, fingers pressing the small of your back as you peered curiously into the boarded windows, traversing the wrap around porch to the back of the property.

The overgrown field stretched flat and far into the distance, affording a stunning view of an uninterrupted expanse of sky curving to the horizon. You settled on the staircase to gaze at the stars twinkling to life above, snuggling against the angel for warmth when he lowered himself beside you.

Hugging you nearer, his lips lingered on your forehead in a tender kiss. “I am sorry I got us lost…again.”

“Lost?” Looking up to search his shining blue eyes, you cupped your palm to his prickly cheek, thumb caressing the dark curls gathered at his temple as a smile blossomed on your lips. “Angel, with you, I’ll never lose my way.”

Beaming, he leaned in for a kiss, soft lips melting against your inviting apple-spiced mouth.


	22. Blade

Expression an enigmatic sea of blue. Affect flat with a hint of melancholy. Demeanor about as unassuming as a tax accountant unless provoked. Prone to random outbursts of esoteric observation interspersed with long bouts of silence. Given to stoical demonstrations of love and loyalty. On the surface of things, you understood Castiel about as well as a human could hope to understand the multi-dimensional wavelength of celestial intent they’d fallen hopelessly in love with – in other words, a lot of unanswered questions remained.

Questions ranging from the obvious: _Is an angel even capable of feeling romantic love toward a human?_ To the practical: _How does he manage to get the blood stains out of his clothing when I can’t even manage to get the wrinkles out of my own?_ To the absurd: _Why does he always have the perfect five o’clock shadow whether it’s five in the morning or the evening or if we’ve been on the road five days straight and I haven’t had time to even brush my hair let alone shave my damned legs?_ Of all the unanswered questions flitting through your mind regarding the angel, one in particular held your rapt interest at the moment to the point of total distraction from the task at hand: _Where in Chuck’s name does he keep that angel blade when he’s not using it?_

You were supposed to be watching the rear door. The same door a really _really_ pissed off demon burst through four or five seconds ago. The enraged demon now tackling a very surprised Dean who was not alerted by you of the intrusion and thus taken unawares. The hunter flashed you an irate green glare as the demon’s fist struck his jaw and cracked one, no, make that two, teeth. Dean spat bone and blood, quickly recovering his wits to gain the upper hand.

You missed all of it. Your attention was fixed on the angel’s clenched fists across the room where he guarded the far door. Blue eyes glinting, a subtle flick of the wrist, or was it more a shimmy of the arm, and a gleaming metal point emerged into his palm, long fingers grasping the handle of his heavenly weapon as he sprang forward in a billow of tan fabric to intercede on Dean’s behalf.

Sam’s struggling grunt somewhere to your left shook you from the trance. Spinning to come to his assistance, you stooped to retrieve the demon knife knocked from his clutches and clattering across the cement toward you. Angel blade in one hand, knife in the other, you ducked to avoid being railroaded by the demon’s thick arm as it turned on you. Reversing your grip, you swung back hard as the demon passed you, burying the the knife deep beneath the soft unprotected flesh below the ribcage. He expired in a satisfying electric explosion of orange.

“Thanks,” Sam said, bobbing his head in grateful acknowledgement.

You wiped the knife on your pants and handed it over to him with a smile.

“What the hell was that?!”

You cringed at Dean’s tone, smiling lips peeling over your teeth in a grimace.

“Was there some part about _watch the door_ you didn’t understand?”

“Sorry,” you muttered, shoulders slouching penitently and turning to confront him, “I was, uh, I got distracted.” Your eyes drifted from Dean’s frustrated frown to the intense concern furrowing Castiel’s features as he attempted to heal Dean’s bruised and bloodied jaw.

Dean shot the angel an annoyed scowl. Aggravated not by his friend’s well-meaning hovering, but by your blatant non-verbal confirmation of the notion he had that Cas was the source of your distraction and his own pain, again. Exhaling a sigh of exasperation, he stilled himself long enough to assent to the angel’s healing grace. Reaching up to roughly rub his mended chin, tongue probing the restored dentition, he glared at you, griping, “Yeah, well, distracted is a good way to get people dead.” Shaking his head, he began to stomp away, pausing after several steps to plant a heal and point between you and the angel, reconsidering, “You know, if you have something to say, just do it already. It’ll be a lot less painful in the long run for all of us.” With that zinger, he retreated.

Sam gave your arm a knowing and sympathetic squeeze as he brushed past, jogging to catch up with his brother to try to calm him down.

Chin dropping to your chest, you contemplated the mottled concrete floor. You deserved being outed. Dean wasn’t wrong. You were a liability for everyone. Your keen interest in the angel was becoming a problem. Even now your skin tingled pleasantly under the tangible intensity of his regard and you could focus on little else.

“What’s Dean talking about?”

Inhaling a shaky breath, stealing your resolve, you peered up at him. “Cas, I-”

The question on his tongue was also writ in the curious squint of his eyes and the inquisitive angle of his aspect.

“I-”

When you faltered the second time, he stepped nearer – close enough for you to feel the radiant heat of his vessel.

You panicked at the proximity. Instead of telling him what was hidden in your heart, you awkwardly reached out to palpate up and down his sleeve in search of his stowed weapon. “Where is it?”

A small amused smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he clasped his fingers around your wrists and drew your trembling hands gently to his chest to stop your frantic hunt.

“Your angel blade. Where do you keep it when you’re not using it?” you murmured, heart racing, unable to raise your eyes from his blue striped tie.

Releasing your hands, he hooked a finger beneath your chin to upturn your face to his. Shifting closer, the hem of his trench coat brushed the fronts of your legs. Your focus wavered between his invitingly full lips and the unfathomable blue depths of his darkening irises as he spoke, “You do know you can tell me anything, don’t you?”

You nodded.

He leaned in, hot breath caressing your lips. “And?”

Deciding the age old adage about actions speaking louder than words was uniquely applicable to the present situation, you kissed him. Lips melting to his with a soft moan, you answered him with an outpouring of unrestrained passion.

His fingers flew to tangle in your hair, a steadying arm winding about your waist, fully reciprocating your affection as he led you backward, pressing you firmly to the wall.

“Cas,” you gasped, breaking away from his eager mouth, a smirk alighting your features.

“Hmm?” He smoothed your locks, fingers curling around the curve of your throat as he tickled and nuzzled the delicate flesh of your neck with his nose and chin – peppering soothing feather lite kisses in the wake of his ministrations.

“You never did answer my question,” you giggled. “And I’m guessing that’s not an angel blade in your pocket.”


	23. Pillows

“Define _emergency_ ,” Dean huffed at the blue-eyed seraph scrutinizing two body pillows displayed on a shelf. The hunter glanced around the pristine home goods store uncomfortably, winking and smiling at a passing customer who reacted with alarm to his rough tone and dingy blood-stained flannel attire. When the coast cleared, he continued grumbling, “Cause I’m not seeing anything that looks even remotely like an emergency right now so there better be a damn good reason Sammy and I hauled ass to get here.” The brothers had rushed to the address after Cas’ urgent text for help, stunned when they pulled the Impala up outside a _Bed, Bath, and Beyond_.

Castiel ignored Dean’s griping, turning with a pillow held aloft in each hand, asking with an earnest squint, “Which of these pillows most reminds you of me?”

“Are you freaking kidding me?” The gape of Dean’s mouth and full-frame roll of incensed green eyes suggested he wanted to utter a much more colorfully worded version of the question.

“I’m not _kidding you_ ,” the angel flatly retorted, “Y/N says she can’t sleep when I’m not with her in the bunker. I thought-”

“Listen.” Dean held up a palm, waving between Cas and the pillows. “Sure, you’re both stuffed with feathers, but I think what she’s missing is a bit more complicated than that. You know-”

The angel cocked his head askance – he didn’t know.

Dean glared, making fists, features straining, fair freckled cheeks reddening, trying to instill a sexual innuendo laden meaning his oblivious friend simply wasn’t comprehending. Giving up, he threw his hands in the air and sighed, “Come on man, she needs something more than a pillow to hug.”

Cas blinked and frowned at the pillows. “She seems to find it very relaxing when she cuddles with me at night.”

“But, I mean, that’s not _all_ you do.” Dean tried again, raising an emboldening eyebrow.

“No,” the angel offered, “sometimes we talk until she falls asleep.”

“Sometimes you talk?” Dean peered around the store to see if anyone else was hearing this. “You’ve been sleeping together for almost 3 months, and-,” his voice rose a notch in disbelief, “-and, sometimes you _talk_?”

Cas shrugged. “She likes it when I tell her stories.”

“I’m sure at this point she’ll take whatever she can get,” Dean snorted.

Sam approached with a small rectangular box tucked in the crook of his arm. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Oh,” Dean mused, smirking as he faced his brother and jostled him by the coat collar, “Y/N can’t sleep when Cas isn’t around, so he figured he’d replace himself with a pillow. I’m starting to think it might be an upgrade for her love life.”

Sam’s brow furrowed in confusion.

Dean added, “At the very least it’s just as likely as this featherbrained idiot to make a move.”

The angel’s blue eyes widened in a spark of understanding.

Dean snatched the box from Sam’s clutches and headed for the front of the store, spinning on his heel to tread backward as he examined the graphics thereon. “Why the hell do we need a waffle maker?”

“Uh, to make waffles,” Sam answered, grabbing the stolen box. “Obviously.”

“What’s wrong with the ones that come already made in the freezer?”

Cas watched the brothers playfully bicker about the merits of waffles as they walked away. It occurred to him, with sudden clarity, he owed you a lot more than a pillow for company. In a flurry of feathers, he was gone, pillows thudding forgotten in the middle of the aisle.


	24. Hands

Overcome by sleep, your fingers twitched and relaxed where they lay warm against Castiel’s chest, entangled with the button of his shirt you absentmindedly fiddled with for the last half hour as you struggled to keep heavy lashed eyelids from shuttering.

Gazing down at you, blue irises shining softly with fondness, he smiled to himself – in all the time he’d known you, never once had you succeeded in making it to the end of a movie before succumbing to the embrace of slumber. He reached for the remote, careful not to disturb your restive form. Preferring to watch over you as you slept in a silence undisturbed save by your steady heartbeat and slow measured breaths, he flicked off the television and nestled you deeper into the crook of his arm.

You snuggled obligingly closer, reflexive fingers curling around his when he picked up your hand.

Brushing the soft sensitive flesh at the base of your thumb, his grace radiated outward to quiet your torpor. He paused to ponder the slender taper of your fingers. He stroked the delicate skin, following the mapping curve of sinew and bone, feeling the heated pulse of life buried just beneath the fleshy surface. Squinting, he unfolded your knuckles to study the distinctive whirls and lines and callouses etched upon your hunter’s fingertips in the dim light. Beyond pure physicality, he mused, too, upon the limitless capabilities contained therein.

Those same digits that could deftly end a monster could also mend wounds and nurture life. They contained potential for destruction mitigated by a talent for creation matched only by the likes of his father. These hands somehow intuited when their gentle touch was wanted most, caressing a shoulder or cheek in a moment of need, ever soothing with reassurance. They spoke with deafening volume – language uttered in a tender twining together of fingers and loving letters traced on bare skin. More than once they brought the angel to his knees, weak with pleasure. Yet others felt their potential to mete out wrath and pain.

Resting his vessel’s broad hand over your smaller one, he marveled at the notion that the greatest power this comparatively tiny human hand beneath his held was the fact that within its unassuming palm it alone could contain not only the boundless heart of, but the entire existence of an angel.


	25. Shoulder Blades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble contains explicit NSFW content. Adult/18+ readers only! Wing kink.

“Again,” Castiel gasps into your ear, pink lips sinking to sear the column of your neck, blue eyes fluttering shut as a wave of ecstasy crashes and breaks over his vessel. The stubbly fuzz of his chin sets the soft stretch of your throat ablaze. His hot desperate pants of pleasure further fuel the fire on your moisture sheened skin and stoke the slow burn of bliss threatening to incinerate your senses with each rolling thrust of his hips against your body.

You’ve never seen him this wrecked. An unselfish lover, ever intent in his focus on your gratification, he has never let himself lose complete control; not fully, not like this. He knows all the sensitive spots that make you writhe and moan in delight. He has memorized the map of your pleasure, wielding his vessel and divine power like weapons to target and destroy you in the best possible ways – rebuilding your shattered nerves with his soothing grace only to devastate you all over again.

“Please, again,” he begs once more, the request emerging a husky whisper off his tongue. He leans back to look into your eyes, propping his weight on his elbows to brush his palms over your hair. His entreating gaze is eclipsed nearly to black with desire, irises lost in a thin gleaming ring of ocean blue surging in a sea storm of lust.

Fingers clawing at the dark damp locks curled at his nape, you pull him to your mouth, lips waltzing in a passionate dance to the mad melodic music of your frantic combined heartbeats. Now that your wandering caresses have discovered where he’s most vulnerable – the move that leaves him weak and begging for more – you’re going to take full advantage and return the favor of his unrelenting affections. Your fingertips ghost his back, lightly traveling the muscular arch of his shoulders, following the sloping curve to knead firmly into the broad base of his shoulder blades.

He groans long and low into your mouth, the salacious sound vibrating to tighten your core to the breaking point. The rhythm of his thrusts falters as his cock twitches and swells inside you and the weight of his trembling frame collapses on top of you. In your embrace, the indulgent angel loses control of his vessel’s limbs as his pure celestial being yields itself to the overwhelming pleasure of your touch. Powerless to contain them when he submits to you, jet black wings unfurl behind him, filling the room with a feverish rustling of silken quills. The feathers frenetically jolt, his shuddering wingspan outstretching to test the very boundaries of the bedroom.

Even as your own orgasm overtakes you, pulsing walls drawing out his warm release, your fingers do not relent, massaging the mass of downy fluff at the base of his shoulder blades until he is limp and mumbling incoherent choked syllables of Enochian into your skin.

Breathless and spent, his wings contract as he rolls to his side. Keeping your lax figure pressed close to his vessel, his wings shake themselves out and relax, draping to blanket you both in the afterglow of bliss.


	26. Oatmeal

“What the hell is _that_?” Dean positions himself squarely in the doorway of the kitchen, jutting his chin at the steaming bowl of mystery mush Castiel carries, effectively obstructing the angel’s path into the hall.

“Oatmeal,” Cas states flatly, the compressed curl yanking at the corner of his mouth questioning the reason why Dean is hindering his exit. He attempts to dart left through an open space between the hunter and the door jamb.

The elder Winchester’s muscular frame shifts to block the attempted escape.

Cas redirects, aiming right through the now unguarded gap there.

“ _Oatmeal_?” Dean swiftly sways, extending his elbows, firmly planting his hands at his hips to again prevent Cas from passing.

Impeded by his nosy friend, the angel’s blues narrow in annoyance. His nostrils subtly flare with the snuff of an impatient snort over Dean’s impertinence and your rapidly cooling breakfast. He doesn’t know much about food, but he knows hot food is supposed to be served _hot_. “It’s for Y/N. She requires nourishment,” he explains. He should know – cradling you in his arms a few minutes ago he both heard and felt the unsettling rumble of your stomach as you slept.

“No one _likes_ oatmeal,” Dean grimaces.

“Sam does.”

“Sammy also likes _kale_. He’s not the best baseline. Trust me when I tell you she doesn’t want that-,” he gags, gesturing at the unappealing homogenous brown slurry sloshing in the bowl, “-that, _sludge_.”

Cas stares between the admittedly bland appearing bowl and the solemn green glint of Dean’s self-assured slightly nauseated expression. Perhaps his friend _is_ correct – how delicious and nutritious can something requiring nothing more than a 60-second bath in boiling water actually be? Maybe Dean’s right. He is, after all, the one with taste buds.

Dean clasps a sympathetic palm to the angel’s defeated shoulder. “You know what she does like, buddy? Those bagels from the place on Main. If you hurry, you can get there and back before she rolls out of bed and realizes you’re gone.”

Castiel’s features lighten in relief, a small smile gracing his aspect. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean steps sideways, patting Cas’ solid back as he squeezes past. “And don’t forget the coffee. She likes it-”

“Yes, I _know_.” Cas’ eyes half-roll, as if he doesn’t know how you prefer your caffeine.

“And if they have those jelly donuts I wouldn’t mind if you grabbed a dozen or two. You know, as long as you’re already there.”

Part way down the hall the angel halts and retraces his steps to thrust the tepid bowl at Dean’s chest. Spinning, trench billowing in a wind of urgency, he rushes away without another word.

Dean’s entire face scrunches when he looks down at the forsaken beige and brown slop. Lifting it to his nose, he tentatively inhales. The distaste coloring his countenance dissolves in piqued curiosity. “Mmm, maple and…brown sugar,” he mutters. Sticking a finger in the goop, he brings it to the tip of his tongue for a taste. Eyes widening in wonder, he casts a guilty glance up and down the hall to ensure he’s alone before shoveling the rest of the surprisingly scrumptious paste into his mouth with the spoon. Bowl emptied, cheeks puffed as he struggles to swallow the gooey goodness, he wipes the sticky evidence off his mouth with a sleeve.


	27. Indubitably

Castiel’s fingertips trace intricate patterns of devotion in the afterglow haze of sweat glistening the soft dimpled landscape of your back where you lay languid upon his heaving torso; your spent body and the tangled sheets tuck seamlessly into his loving embrace.

You stir in the protection of his cocooning arms and hum an incoherent sigh of confessed affection in half-conscious blissful torpor. It’s not how you intended to divulge the depth of your love for the angel for the first time. Fortunately, this is one of those instances where he understands precisely what you mean without you needing to spell it out for him.

Nose nuzzling the sweet scent of your hair, his lips press light to your forehead; a contented growl pulsates from chest to throat to tongue to tickle the sensitive stretch of skin where his kiss-bruised pout lingers. He feels the same outpouring of infinite fondness you do. You feel as much as hear the rumbling bass-inflection of breath when he speaks his answer to your confession. “Me too, honeybee. Indubitably.”

Sated smile caressing the curve of your mouth, you drift into dreaming.


	28. Marshmallows

_Beep beep beep. Whir…_

“Cas?” You barely hear the angel over the background noise and interference blaring from the cell speaker. You assume he’s watching another documentary on the weather channel about freak storms or some such nonsense. You’d think an angel of the Lord would’ve had enough of witnessing natural disasters to last several lifetimes. You’ve learned it’s best not to think when it comes to Castiel. He finds human assumptions like that almost as amusing as thundersnow.

“I’m watching-” His voice is again cut off by the sound of what surely must be a jet engine.

“What? What are you watching?” You slam a hand over your unoccupied ear, squeeze shut your eyes, and press the phone painfully harder into your earlobe as if this will help you better hear his answer.

“Marshmallows.”

You blink. In the light of day and retrospect, it still sounds like he just said, “Marshmallows? Did you say, _marshmallows_?” You knew you never should have left him alone in the bunker.

“Yes,” is his curt reply.

You lean against your car and gape at the gas-n-sip pump before you in bafflement, mumbling, “Wh-why?” 

“When you microwave them, they explode. It’s fascinating.” You perceive a faint huff of angelic laughter punctuating the statement.

_Beep beep beep. Whir…_


	29. Pupper

Castiel peers up from fingering through the pages of a dusty text toward the direction of a harshly clearing throat.

Dean lingers at the library’s double-wide threshold, pointing with a flummoxed glower at the pint-sized dollop of squirming doggie fuzz poised between his palm and red-flannelled chest. The pup whines and wiggles his tail at the familiar sight of the angel.

“Hello, Dean.” Cas is unaffected by the presence of the canine tucked in the crook of his friend’s arm, acknowledging them both with a polite nod as though it’s a perfectly normal every day thing for Dean to discover a tea-cup pooch perched on his bed in a torn apart nest of pillows. “I see you’ve met King Fifi.”

“King Fifi?” Dean echoes, greens incredulously gleaming, voice on the verge of unleashing a torrent of verbal rage.

Cas carefully closes the book and lays it on the table. Rising to his feet and striding to where Dean stands, he reaches out to take the pup, affectionately ruffling his fingers through the tiny terrier’s fur as he licks at his hand. “It’s an honorary title of course. This particular pupper is not descended from royalty, although Mrs. Liebovitz informs me he is accustomed to a certain extravagant quality of care, which is why she couldn’t possibly leave him at the kennel while she visits her sister this weekend in Detroit.”

“Pupper?” Dean huffs. “Pupper?! Since when is the bunker a freakin’ bed and breakfast for wayward paws.”

King Fifi hunkers down in the angel’s arms, growls low, and woofs defensively at the hunter’s vexed tone.

Cas cocks his head thoughtfully. His doggo friend mimics the motion. The seraph answers simply, “Since 9:17 this morning when I returned from the park. He’ll be with us until Sunday night.”

“Oh hey, King Fifi!” Sam crosses through the map room, redirecting his post-jog momentum to greet the little guy. “Mrs. L leave for her sister’s today?”

King Fifi practically launches himself at the younger Winchester, scrambling up his torso to lavish kisses upon his sweaty face.

Sam chuckles airily under the onslaught.

Outnumbered, Dean rolls his eyes, spins on a booted heel, and lurches grumbling out of the room.

Cas watches him leave, silently wondering if he should tell him now or later about the second pooch, a labrador named Dutchess with an affinity for bacon greater than Dean’s, laying slobbery siege to the kitchen.


	30. Flirtation

The world is at the brink of ending. Again. Must be Thursday. You slip through the ill-lit rust-saturated rear entrance of the warehouse where Sam and Dean asked you to meet them. Looking around at the decrepit paper-thin sheets of metal flaking from floor to ceiling, breathing in the nose-tingling scent of metallic demise, you briefly wonder whether tetanus is transmissible by inhalation. The thought doesn’t linger long. Hearing a hushed argument, you move further into the ruins to find the Winchesters’ favorite angelic ally and the King of Hell himself bickering where they, too, wait for the brothers.

“Crowley, if you so much as look at any one of us the wrong way I will not hesitate to finish you,” Castiel warns. Broad shouldered stature puffed up for maximum intimidation, he looms mere inches from the smirking debonair demon. 

Unimpressed, Crowley stands his ground. “Oh Cas, you flirt. You know I do enjoy a _happy_ ending.” He reaches up between them to readjust his coat lapels from the blustering breath of the overprotective angel and nonchalantly smooths the stubble of his mustache.

“That was _not_ a flirtation.” Cas’ upper lip twitches and curls into a snarl.

“And _I_ do enjoy a sassy seraph.” You emerge from the shadowy recesses to mediate, sauntering over to throw your arms around the bristling angel.

“Y/N it’s-” He stiffens then relaxes into your hug, going so far as to wrap his arms around your frame and pull you nearer. “-it’s good to see you.”

“I wouldn’t miss the twelfth - Or is it thirteenth? - annual apocalypse for anything else in the world,” you murmur into the fabric of his coat.

“Fourteenth,” Crowley helpfully notes. “That is if we’re counting the time _Sass_ -tiel here drank purgatory and went on a God bender.”

Clasping the angel’s cloth-shrouded and deceivingly thick biceps to sooth the renewed rise of his ire, you pull away from him only slightly to peer up affectionately into those piercing blue eyes. You missed him too, and maybe it’s about time you finally did something about it, assuming both of you survive what’s coming. “Don’t ever change. Vessels, I mean. I’m partial to this handsome face of yours.” You flash him a sultry smile.

The pink tinting his cheeks is instantaneous. The sternness of his features softens. He gulps his words. “Um, thank you.”

You leverage his tie to lift up onto your tip-toes to peck a kiss to his flushed flesh, whispering into his warmth radiant skin, “Just so we’re clear, angel, that _was_ a flirtation.”


	31. Lost

“I’m afraid we’re lost.” Castiel squints to focus on the map spread across the hood of the gold Continental. The glossy paint and windshield refract blinding rays of sunlight into both your faces. He runs the calloused pad of a fingertip along the colorful sheet in search of any recognizable landmarks.

“How is that possible?” You spin to lean against the car and kick at the dirt of the unpaved road in frustration, launching a cloud of clay-colored dust into the air. You wearily eye a cow - a formidable black and white splotched beast - beyond the roadside electric fence ruminating over the unexpected mid-day company. From the smell of sun-baked manure, you can tell she’s been waiting for your arrival in that exact spot for some time.

The angel sighs heavily and turns toward you. Sticking his hands in his pockets, ever pragmatic in situational summations, he grumbles, “Well, I’d assume at some point a hundred or so miles ago, we turned left when we should have turned right.”

You exhale sharply and loll your head to your shoulder to look at him, expression lined in annoyance as though this is somehow all his fault when you were the one tasked with reading the map. Maybe if he’d have let you put on something other than NPR on the radio, you wouldn’t have fallen asleep, oh, about a hundred or so miles ago. But _no_ , he insisted on adhering to Dean’s stupid rule: _Driver picks the music_. “Don’t you have some sort of internal celestial navigation system like a homing pigeon?” you half-tease.

“You mean, can I reckon geological location relying solely on the Earth’s magnetic field like many other of creation’s winged beasts?” he deadpans.

“Yeah, that,” you mutter.

“No.”


	32. Cat

A songstress once aptly noted: “ _My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard_.” Your musical tastes may not be relevant as far as a certain set of Winchesters are concerned, Dean in particular, but the slow simmer and bubbling scent of your famous _spaghetti à la bunker_ wafting through the halls reliably brings the boys to the kitchen. 

Dean’s curiosity about when dinner will be served is less than subtle as he balances a hand in the middle of your back and reaches around you to dip his finger into the pot up to the second knuckle. “Hey, sweetheart. Is that what I think it is?” He plants a totally platonic saucy kiss to your cheek as you continue to stir.

“Five minutes, Winchester. There’s cold beer in the fridge.” You wave his hovering figure off. “And grab one for me!” you add.

Sam wanders in next. “Dinner smells amazing, Y/N.” The boy with the Roman God worthy bod normally watches his carb intake. When it comes to your cooking though, he watches those delicious carbs twirl around a fork before shoveling them into his salivating mouth.

“Everyone’s fave!” You grin over your shoulder. Grabbing the edges of the boiling pasta pot with a towel, hissing expletives under your breath at the scorching sizzle of steam uprising as the water hits the cool metal of the sink, you dump the contents into a colander to drain. A quick _shake shake_ of the slippery noodles for good measure and you transfer them directly into the waiting sauce and turn off the heat. Plucking the forked serving spoon from the counter, you pick up the heavy cast iron pot and carefully hoist it to the counter behind you. 

When you look up from the carbalicious cheesy concoction, Dean stands on the other side of the counter, holding out his empty plate, greens glinting eagerly. Sam is situated behind him, licking his lips as he leans sideways to see. And, most unexpectedly, your blue-eyed angelic paramour who doesn’t eat - never eats, only occasionally drinks coffee you think mostly to minimize awkwardness at diners - waits at the end of the line with his own plate in hand. As it turns out, milkshakes have nothin’ on your spaghetti.

Salacious food-gasm groan vibrating his throat, Dean burns his mouth on a forkful of the pasta before he even sits down at the table. Sam shows a modicum of restraint, taking his seat and folding a napkin across his lap like a civilized human being while he shakes his head scoldingly at his brother.

But it’s the angel who seizes your attention. He sets his plate in the middle of the table, steps back, drapes open his coat, and plucks from within the depths of the fabric a full-sized rangy dirt-matted feline whom he transfers directly onto the table. The tom looks around the room cautiously, flicks his tail warily, dares a preliminary sniff of the edge of the plate, and then digs into the savory offering, growling greedily between his gorging in a show of gastronomic enthusiasm uncannily similar to Dean’s.

“What the Hell is _that_?” Dean ceases chewing to grumble through a mouthful of food, bits of sauce sneak from the corner of his mumbling mouth. He aims his fork at the feline.

Uncertain if Dean’s superfluous query is worthy of the obvious answer, Cas glances from the slightly nonplussed puss to his friend, flatly stating, “A cat, Dean.” Cas believes the punctuating extra-husky _Dean_ really drives home the utter ridiculousness of the question.

Swallowing to facilitate the _let’s try this again_ roll of his eyes, Dean attempts another approach. “What the Hell is a cat doing in my kitchen?”

The angel doesn’t hesitate to offer a practical explanation. “He moved into the outer garage alcove a few weeks ago. I heard him exploring the bunker’s duct work last night and invited him to dinner to welcome him to the neighborhood.”

Dean studies the innocent sheen of his angelic friend’s expression. Chugging a sip of beer and wiping his chin on the back of his sleeve, he snarks, “Oh, well then, by all means, let’s give the flea-bag a warm freakin’ welcome.”

You, for one, think it’s the most adorable thing you’ve seen all week and you fully support your angel branching out to make new - and evident by the motor-like purr of the contented cat now politely washing his face with a paw - _grateful_ friends. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Cas.” You squeeze his arm in support and smile.

“Yeah, so _thoughtful_.” Dean sneers and, parasite paranoia setting in, scratches the insect he imagines is currently crawling through his hair.

Sam smirks and scritches the grateful cat behind the ears.

Heartened by your words, smile stretching to crease his shining blues, Cas elaborates on the guest, “I’ve explained that we’re hunters. He, too, _hunts_. Specializes in mice. Did you know that as with vampires the preferred method of dispatching rodents is via decapitation?”

Dean spits out a piece of fur and pushes his plate away in disgust.

Sam’s forehead knots in concern. “That’s, uh, that’s great, Cas, but the bunker doesn’t have a mouse problem.”

The angel’s eyes knowingly narrow. “Exactly, Sam. He’s highly skilled at his job.”


	33. Exquisite

Staring at the job application in your hands - an old-school front and back  type-writer formatted paper number - you squint at the odd assortment of questions. “This reads more like a Tumblr _getting to know you_ tag than a job app,” you mumble around the BIC #2 pencil tucked in the corner of your mouth. Because, of course, a modern click pen is too contemporary for a joint still relying on the Dewey Decimal classification system for filing.

“Tumblr?” Cas squints at you over the copy of Condé Nast Traveler he peruses from across the table.

“It’s a…eh, nevermind,” you mumble. He already wastes too much time in the rabbit hole that is YouTube subscribing to and watching cute baby animal videos. And, inexplicably, this one short - someone’s animation master thesis of a kiwi flying, and then, soul crushingly, not flying cause kiwi can’t fly - for which his repeated viewings must account for at least half of the hits.

You’re not actually here applying for a job. Not technically, anyway. You have a job - ganking monsters - and it’s full-time plus plenty of opportunity for unpaid overtime with the best benefit being a low-cost angelic universal health care plan. However, you are attempting to gain an in at this library as an overnight sorter in order to destroy a ghost haunting a first edition text in the special collections that happens to be bound in said spirits formerly owned corporeal skin. It’s not a situation you feel the hard-ass librarian scowling skeptically at you through lowered specs from behind the _\- SILENT! -_ sign will understand.

You look down again at the application and read question 5: Describe yourself in one word. You could lie. _Liar_. It’s not exactly you, except in regards to your employment history, or lack thereof. You could write what you think the witchy woman wants to hear to hire you. Something elementary school stodgy like _conscientious_. You glance back up at the angel who still has his searching blue irises trained on you. “Humph,” the sound resonates in the back of your throat. You _could_ ask the angel. You tell yourself it’s for no reason other than for kicks.

“Cas, describe me in one word.”

Regard steady, his gaze slants ever so slightly in thought. He folds the glossy magazine and drops it forgotten to the table to give this important matter his undivided attention. One word is rather limiting to summarize your intelligence, bravery, kindness, beauty, comparative human fragility, everything your friendship and unrelenting affection means to him, and the depth of the fondness he carries for you in his heart. 

After a moment, it occurs to him there is a word perhaps up to the task of capturing you - _you_ , the most perfectly crafted of his Father’s creations. Leaning forward in his chair, eyes shining sincerity, his upper lip twitches before he softly speaks the solitary word. “Exquisite.”


	34. Love at First Sight

Castiel felt it the first time he cast his eyes on you outside a dinner crowd packed diner slash lean-to held together by duct tape and the will of God near Glen Falls, NY.

Dean insisted the char-grilled greasy burgers inside – the aroma of blackened beef permeating the surrounding area and causing his own mouth to water in anticipation as he boasted about them – would be well worth the wait and potential hypothermia.

Sam’s deep skepticism manifested in a forehead knotting hazel-hued glower suggesting he wasn’t happy freezing his balls off for a burger and they’d better have damn good salads, too.

Conditioned to boredom by the brotherly bickering, attentive instead to the various comings and goings of the diner patrons and listening for information pertaining to the case in their chatter, Cas spotted you first, crossing the parking lot – a ray of sunshine beaming in the otherwise drab scenery – a stunning stranger motioning commiseratively for him to keep your approach a surprise.

The brothers were hunting a wendigo, tracking it through the early winter leaf-littered moss-coated topography of the Catskill mountains; lucky for them and luckier for the angel, so were you.

He can still recall the vivid flickering red-orange of the neon _OPEN_ sign setting your skin afire despite the frigid temperatures when you leaned on the fence rail beside him and introduced yourself – your name a blossom of frost exhaled in the air between you. Even now he can summon to mind in detail the minute creases marking your pale quivering lips as you spoke, the self-assured smile stretched between glowing cheeks, the blaze of light lit within your soul dancing behind your irises when they met his blues, the _something familiar_ he couldn’t quite place in your warmly lingering glances, and the way your attention was drawn to him the entire evening – the constant smile shadowing your lips growing more luminous whenever you met his inquisitive gaze.

If he wasn’t an angel burdened by self-doubt and ingrained with notions about what an angel is and isn’t permitted to feel or do when those denied feelings do happen to arise, he would have called it love at first sight.

He experienced the strange stimulating sentiment again the following summer when you, by pleasant happenstance, crossed paths with the brothers during another gruesome hunt. The agreeable heart fluttering phenomenon of your companionship was perceptible to him the instant you showed up.

Sat in the backseat of the Impala, exhausted, begrimed by ghoul guts, distant lighting flashing over your peaceful features every so often, you drifted in and out of consciousness, comfortable in using the angel’s shoulder as a pillow on the lengthy back country ride to the motel as an endless stream of summer sun ripened cornfields whipped past the lowered windows. Zeppelin blared over the roar of the humidity-laden storm-charged cascade of wind rushing in and washing over your weary form.

The lurid warmth of your fingers resting lightly on his thigh, twitching now and then in a futile attempt to hold on to slipping awareness, the solidity of your lax figure curled against his vessel, the tangible wave of electric heat building where your bodies innocently pressed together, elated and overwhelmed his celestial sensibilities and made it seem to him anything and everything was possible in your presence. 

He’ll never admit to Dean he selfishly exercised his angelic _mojo_ that night to blow not one, but both of Baby’s front tires during a gas stopover so he’d have an excuse to bask in your alluring aura a little bit longer.

He acknowledged and accepted the exhilarating emotion for what it was – an enduring fondness, not a mere fleeting infatuation – a few weeks later when, after you claimed to coincidentally crash a third hunt of theirs, the Winchesters invited you to stay on in the bunker _indefinitely_ for the sake of avoiding anyone almost getting accidentally shot for creeping around the same dimly lit abandoned building in search of witchy foes in the future. 

And although he understood how he felt, he carried that realization in rapt, often awkwardly staring, silence – unsure of how to proceed and, more importantly, if he should. He worried perhaps his time with humanity made him prone to wishful thinking, that he read too much into your kindness toward him.

He acted upon his revelation late one night, unexpectedly and without the paralytic anxiety of pre-planning – otherwise known as doubting – when his defenses were defeated by your adorable appeal for protection. 

Ducking in terror over a movie scene, you clutched at and clung to his arm. Violently upturning the bowl of popcorn in your lap in an uprising of fear, squirming and burying your face in his sleeve, a horrified squeal erupted from your throat at the gory images playing across the television. Because for all the carnage you witness and dispatch as a hunter on a regular basis, scary movies made you weak without the reality rush of adrenaline to steel your nerves.

In the immediate buttery mess of the aftermath, swiping popcorn from the folds of his trench coat, blushing and laughing at your own ridiculous over-the-top reaction to the fiction – cheesy predictable fiction at that – he caught up your wrists to still you.

When you lifted your gaze, you didn’t shy from his intensely affectionate regard, his focus alighting from your gleaming eyes to the pink bow of your mouth. Nor did you pull away when he let loose his clasp of your wrists to gently tilt up your chin with a hooked finger and bend to brush his lips, soft and sweet and suddenly full of certainty, to yours.


	35. Fall Season

Castiel favors the fall.

Not so much his angelic _fall_ from Heaven or the ensuing disaster afflicted upon his kin on account of his misjudgment, rather, he’s partial to the autumnal equinox signaling the wane of summer days – that enchanted season of purple aster and cone-flower bedizened meadows mantled in a glitter of morning dew and speckled by the flitting black-orange forms of delicate monarchs on the wing giving way to a pale blue-skied wash of afternoon sunshine blanketing ruddy-hued treetops, a gentle breeze assuaging tinted leaves here and there to forsake their tenuous ligneous posts for grassy beds as they tuck in for a crisp fogged evening enveloping midnight meanderers in the skin-prickling embrace of frost-fringed darkness.

In the cycle of a hundred thousand or more autumns, the inimitable angel thought he’d witnessed everything special the season had to offer; he believed with a firmness of celestial conviction these days unfolded universally as the culmination of beauty contained in his Father’s creation – a singular harmony of life and death, beginnings and ends, unified within the diminishing hours of daylight and enduring as an exemplification of the elusive concept of being _enough_ he often felt lacking in his own calamity fraught existence. He took comfort in nature’s ruddy splendor; Fall needed no improving upon, whereas the angel supposed himself a hopeless case.

He thought thus until he met _you_.

You, whose frosty fingers dart to tickle at his waist during a sunset orchard walk, diving beneath the beige fabric of his trench coat seeking warmth, the closeness of flesh thawing his status as a stoically solitary being. You, whose delighted laughter rings clear into the cold cushion of air, cheeks cheered rosy and creased in amusement by some seraphim non-sequitur or sentiment said simply to savor seeing you smile. You, whose freshly bitten apple-scented breath hotly caresses the corner of his mouth as your lips lightly lay loving siege to his with a sweet kiss that melts the shell of self-doubt encasing his heart with reassurance he is enough for you.

Castiel will forever favor falls – the fated one, even, from on high that ferried him by fortune to your side, those defining the auburn daubed spectacle of autumn’s magnificence, and more than any other, his tumble ever deeper into love with you.


	36. Favorite Moment

In the afterglow of slaked arousal – drunk deep at the bodily well erupting between you of that most sweetly intoxicating divine nectar of sensual satisfaction – the seraph curls the spent shell of your body close to his chest. 

One arm wound about your waist, the other slipped beneath the curved column of your kiss-claimed neck, the heat of his palm rests across the dampened delicate swell of your gasping breast where a white radiance of grace shimmers the sweat-sheen of skin to soothe your pleasure wrought nerves and ease you into slumber.

Cradled thus, your breath steadies; muscles and limbs melt into the solidity of him and cease their quivering. Shallow pants become slow and regular as the sanctity of his embrace softens your grasp on sentience. A contented half-yawned hum tickles at your throat, the sleepily garbled sound meant to be a blissfully burbled bid of, _“Goodnight, my love.”_

Castiel knows – he feels the depth of your adoration resounding in each beat of his vessel’s heart; he senses the illuminant veracity of the sentiment warming his very being to the core with a luster that outshines all else, even his own angelic force of inner light. In the blanket of bedroom darkness, the blues of his eyes wetly reflect your murmured devotion and more. 

Nuzzling his nose along the lobe of your ear, he whispers reverent words of Enochian expressing the boundlessness of his love in return; the strangely syllabled confession encompasses a comfort that loosens the last of your clutches on consciousness.

It’s in these still and silent stretches of midnight hours snuggling your defenseless figure near the angel deems sovereign among his favorite moments. Holding you here, the failures fade from his mind, self-doubts diminish, and he tarries the time in fulfillment of pure celestial purpose – a creature crafted foremost by his Father as a shepherd, shield, and guardian of humanity, serenely watchful of the soul that shown him the path to happiness.


	37. Apple Bobbing

“He’s been at it a long time,” Dean drifts a step nearer in awe, bending at the waist while keeping his beer bottle carefully held upright to avoid spillage while getting a better angle on the action of the angel with his chest currently submerged in a barrel of water.

Silently cheering the seraph on from the sidelines, you dodge a wave of water roiling over the brim. You can see in the stiffness seizing his shoulders and the frustrated tautness of the muscles rippling in his forearms - limbs exposed to the elbows by rolled up shirt sleeves and braced for balance on the rim - that he’s growing more and more frustrated with each passing moment.

The splash of wetness misses Sam’s feet by mere inches where he stands, arms crossed, intently observing Castiel’s attempts to capture an apple. He winces in sympathy when a bobbing fruit escapes the angel’s desperate gnashing bite.

If Cas weren’t taking the silly task so damned seriously, it’d be comical, but at this point you all feel a bit sorry for his lack of success; not that you lot of sadists are helping him strategize.

“Is it cheating if he doesn’t need to breathe?” Dean wonders aloud without tearing his rapt gaze away.

It strikes you as surprising, cheeks mantling pink at the intimacy of the thought, that Dean isn’t more impressed by the other obvious potential benefits of not needing oxygen for prolonged periods; and you certainly squirm more than an apple even with the angel not handicapped by rules and using his hands and grace to subdue you.

You all collectively hold your breath, jaws slightly agape, when it appears Cas finally has his slippery red quarry cornered - ultimate stratagem that of practically plunging fully into the tub and trapping an apple against the bottom.

“Yes!” You bounce, toss your arms in the air, and throw yourself at the soaked angel when he emerges, blues twinkling triumphant, juice from the punctured red flesh and rivulets of water dripping down his unshaven chin.

He hardly has time to remove the apple from his mouth before your lips are on him, the taste of your kiss sweeter than any fumbled fruit as you yank the soggy length of his tie to ease him closer.


	38. Corn Maze

Staring at the text message on your cell screen of Dean declaring victory with picture proof attached of he and Sammy grinning at the exit, you bump bodily into Castiel where he stands, unmoved despite your distracted momentum, scowling at yet another dead end; the path to nowhere is helpfully noted as such by a wooden sign painted in glow-in-the-dark block lettering spelling out the words D-E-A-D E-N-D in case there were any remaining question by the hapless discover. 

Head cocked, adorably grumpy pout fixed on his handsome features, Cas glances at you as you round to his side. He lifts a speculative eyebrow heavenward. “You know, if you wanted, I could just fly us out of this corn maze and Sam and Dean would be none the wiser,” he offers in a frustrated tone, evidently less confident in his claimed terrestrial navigation prowess than when you entered the labyrinth a half hour ago and diverged from the brothers at the first choice of left versus right. Right, as it turns out, was _wrong_. 

“Too late.” You shrug and spare a resigned look up at the dusky sky. “They won, looks like we’re buying drinks tonight.” You stow the phone in your jean’s pocket, nudge the solid shield of muscle overlying the angel’s ribs, and hook your arm through his loosely swaying one. “Besides, where’s the fun in that?”

His gaze precipitously narrows, although it loses none of its clear blue intensity. “This is supposed to be fun?” He doesn’t realize it’s one of those times he really should have paused to think before he spoke. 

You cast him a wounded frown. After all, an angel plus alone time is your favorite recipe for a good time - you never cared about winning because as far as you’re concerned, you’ve already won the freaking lottery in love. 

“You mean to tell me you’re actually enjoying wandering aimlessly through these stalked corridors?” he expounds, promptly digging himself a deeper hole - perhaps in search of a downward exit out of the maze, most probably not; it’s an innocent mistake considering you’ve stopped twice to remove gravel from your shoe, stumbled ankle deep in a mud puddle, bunged your knee tripping on a branch, violently sneezed at least a dozen times on account of hay allergies, and as of five minutes ago, began occasionally shivering in the unseasonable cool air scented suddenly with snow.

“So then you’re not” -spinning, you square up to face him and smooth the flaps of his trench coat- “having fun?” You intend to ensure that forgiving him for the err in judgement will be. 

“I, uh …,” he breaks off with a gulp realizing saying anything more on the matter is ill-advised. 

Slowly, pressing your palms to his chest, you compel him to shuffle backward until his back sinks into the scratchy, but cushioning, wall of corn. With nowhere for him to go, your body melts into the warmth of his as you slither up on your tip-toes to ravish the parted pink petals of his pliant mouth with a kiss. 

Leaning away to steal a breath, relinquishing none of the contact except the few millimeters separating your lips from his, you peer into his humility-softened lust-darkening blues as your fingers wander to his waist, not so suggestively freeing the hem of his shirt from his trousers and tickling up the bare skin beneath; his flesh flushes with heat, muscles twitching under your caress. 

“How about now?” you ask, exhaled breath teasing his mouth.

Seizing you by the hips, he pivots and pins you with a growl, kissing first your gasping mouth then trailing his affection along your jaw to the column of your throat where he ensures with a bruise of passion that you’ll remember for days exactly the fun about to be had.


	39. Mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Emotional hurt/comfort.

“There you are!” Careening around the hall corner leading into the garage to fetch another case of beer from the trunk of the Impala to keep the liquid merriment flowing at the first, and possibly one and only ever - given what you all do for a living - bunker Halloween party, you spot Castiel laying lonely siege to the topmost stair staring at the fistfuls of frustration folded neatly in his lap. “Is this where you’ve been hiding all night, I was …” The brightness of your smile fades.

He looks up, wearied with internal strife, unable to muster even a solemn greeting in affront to your enthusiasm.

The lighthearted - _‘Looking for you!” -_ to finish your statement withers and dies on the tip of your tongue; your heart thumps out an _uh-oh_ that gets caught somewhere in the back of your throat and stops up your airway with worry. You know that face - the watery gleam of blue resignation, the tightness slouching his shoulders as he struggles through thick muddy seas of regret, the loss for words because he feels he must carry whatever troubles him in stoic isolation.

Task forgotten, you slip beside him and rend loose one of those tense hands to tangle with your fingers.“Hey, angel,” you whisper, gliding your free hand tenderly through his chestnut curls to remind him he is not alone - he has you and others who love him. Planting a chin firmly into the knotted muscle rounding his shoulder, you run a thumb over his knuckles in small soothing circles. “You want to talk about it?”

His mouth twitches; the corners grabbing for and failing to accomplish forming a smile to mirror the gratitude swelling in his heart, he resorts to almost imperceptibly nodding his head.

You readjust your grip, pressing into his palm to let him know you’re listening. 

He fills his lungs and exhales a deep sigh as he tries to think of words. “A few people in there asked why I didn’t wear a costume, why I didn’t dress up and pretend I’m someone else to celebrate the holiday,” he begins. Forehead creasing, edges of his lashes glinting wet in the low light, he continues to confess, “I couldn’t tell them it’s because for the last 10 years I feel as though I’ve been wearing a mask. This vessel, Jimmy - his face, it isn’t _mine_.”

The lump lodged in your trachea threatens to escape as a sob. “Oh, Cas.” You wrap your arms around him and clutch him into the crook of your neck where he willingly collapses seeking solace. You’ve only ever known his vessel’s face, the same goes for Sam and Dean, and it’s easy to overlook the fact those blue eyes, however angelic, don’t belong to the angel; but the light shining from within - the selfless heart, the bravery without bounds, the infinite love - that’s all Castiel. 

Kissing the top of his head, you place his palm over your heart, murmuring into his scalp as his fingers flatten and relax there. “I see you here,” -you cover his hand with yours and crush it to your ribcage so he can sense the truth in every steady reassuring beat- “right _here_. We all do.”

As the bass beat of _Monster Mash_ on repeat echoes faraway off the tiled walls, the warmth of his tears touches your skin where you hold him. Gently rocking, sensing it’s what he needs to hear for comfort, you hum into his ear the same Enochian endearment he whispers to you each night and greets you with every morning whose sentimental significance you can only guess at because any time you ask, the angel dons a soft smile and says the essence of it, like you, defies a single meaning.


	40. Halloween Costume

“What do you think?” Jack appears in the library threshold, open arms held aloft for inspection, gleeful affect bursting to crook his mouth sideways in a dimpled faux-five-o’clock shadow speckled smile.

Castiel glances up, blues resolving into focus and widening in astonishment at the boy bedecked in a boxy beige trench coat and dark suit, the guise perfectly punctuated by a navy tie not unlike his own.

Jack quickly readjusts his features, subduing the gleaming grin into a more seraphim-like stoic pout in order to give Cas the full effect of mimicry.

“That” -stunned, Cas looks to you at his side, noting the smile crinkling your eyes suggesting you knew the plan and were in on it, then turns his regard again to the boy, stumbling for words- “that’s your costume? _Me_?” 

“Yep!” Jack nods his head, contained enthusiasm once more spilling over. “Y/N said that traditionally people dress up as monsters or heroes for Halloween - I chose to be a hero.”

“The kindest, bravest, most selfless hero he knows.” You nudge the dewy-lashed angel with an elbow and reach up to affectionately flick the tip of his nose with a finger. “Happy Halloween, _handsome_.”


	41. Pumpkins

Dean meanders the hall toward the kitchen humming the guitar solo to Led Zeppelin’s _Heartbreaker._ Vocal chords vibrating low to reach the final riff, fingers drumming the air and thudding the threshold, he hops down the two steps and into the midst of Halloween-induced sickly sweet scented messy mayhem. 

Mood dashed by the site of the once spotless kitchen draped in layers of soggy newspaper, seed stuff, various serrated utensils, and discarded bits and bobs of mutilated pumpkin, freckled features alight with a gape-mouthed scowl not unlike the emptied and etched collection of gourds placed on the countertop with glowing candlelit miens covering the full gamut from gory to goofy, his indignant glower passes first over you, then Jack, and settles on Castiel. The angel currently stands elbow deep with a brow bowed in intense concentration as he assuages the innards out of an extra tall oval pumpkin. 

The sticky sound of seed being torn from moist flesh borders on obscene. Dean smirks, snorting, “Hey Cas, you buy that pumpkin dinner before you shoved your hand up its-”

“Dean!” you shout, shooting him a scolding glare; the shift of your eyes sideways toward Jack reminds the hunter there are innocents present.

Cas simply squints. 

Not much gets past Jack; after all, he doesn’t sleep - _much_ \- and the bunker offers unlimited and unsupervised WiFi use and a fair amount of alone time. He peers up at you from where he yanks the stem and attached shell from his latest squashy victim, gaze narrowed, noting, “I’m not a child.”

“No, but Dean _is_.” You smile and gently squeeze his shoulder. You’re certainly not explaining any more of Dean’s vulgarities to the boy, although it’s always entertaining to watch Cas try to do so when he himself often fails to fully understand them. 

The boy accepts the redirection. Corner of his mouth quirking into a minute grin, his regard softens and turns to Dean, asking in hopeful tone, “Are you and Sam going to eviscerate pumpkins with us?” 

Dean grimaces and shakes his head. Crossing to the fridge to grab a cold beer and the other half of the three day old cheeseburger he only just remembered is stowed in there for safekeeping, he peeks out from behind the shining stainless steel door to answer, “The only pumpkin I’m interested in gutting is the kind you find in a pie crust.” Picking up the soggy bun, he sniffs the forsaken burger, shrugs, and takes a bite. 

Cas peels out a final pile of stringy pith and slogs it on the table, correcting matter-of-factly and looking to you for confirmation, “I believe the colloquial term is _carving_ pumpkins.”

You nod. 

Jack’s forehead knots as he files away the knowledge for future reference, though he’s not keen to let go a rather apt analogy. “Carve, of course … _after_ we disembowel them,” he insists, cheeks broadening in a smile as he eagerly plunges his open palm into the uncapped gourd before him to tear out a fistful of slippery goo. “I like this part,” he happily murmurs, diving deeper into the belly of the orange beast with a fervor of energy. 

Eyes locking on Castiel’s blues, you inquire, “How much nougat did you let him eat?”

Avoiding your direct regard, Cas wields his angel blade to begin incising a smile into his pumpkin’s surface. A decidedly guilty gravel inflection afflicts his voice when he admits, “A dozen or so-”

“Pieces?!” You whisper shout in disapproval. 

“ _Bags_ ,” he mumbles, ever the honest angel.


	42. Snowflake

Reclined against the Impala with his arms and ankles loosely crossed, Dean spills a non-stop slew of verbiage through a sloppy smirk. The neon _No Vacancy_ sign of the adjacent motel reflects red in the high-gloss paint of the hood where freezing rain speckles the sheen in glistening beads of wet, each reflecting the scene in glassy minutia of detail. 

Reaching into the open passenger door to grab his well-worn gear bag from the foot well, the very same faded backpack utilized to port oversized law books around the Stanford campus so many years ago, Sam adds a few syllables of his own to the chatter - some retrospective on the concluded case and a retort to Dean’s dive bar plans. He aims a sinewy thumb skyward; a storm is coming, an actual storm, not a supernatural one, to rain on your relaxation, and if that’s not the epigraph etched into the cornerstone of your lives, he doesn’t know what is. He reasonably advocates for a well earned night of rest.

Castiel’s presently Winchester-indifferent focus fixes on your softly smiling features; the plush pout of your lips quirks up at the corners to deepen haloed laugh lines of rosy cheeks over their brotherly bickering. He doesn’t care what they do because you alone occupy his thoughts, and he hopes, his singular sort of slow-simmering sensual attention into the wee morning hours and beyond. 

This is still new - you and he, _together_ \- and every time you sink into his embrace he’s as pleasantly surprised as the first time it happened. He trusts _you_ ; what he doesn’t trust is the universe - given everything he’s done - permitting his continued hold on happiness. He considers every moment with you a gift to be cherished and it shows in his reverential affection.

Dean ducks into the Impala and drives off. Sam slinks to their shared motel room to turn in. You stand there, studying the distracted seraph’s stare.

“Cas.” Your smile stretches around the spoken name, a puff of frozen mist dissipating in the precipitously cooling air. Frigid fingers outstretch to touch the hand peeking from within the sleeve of beige trench coat. “Castiel?“

He blinks with a start, looks down from your mouth to where cool flesh caresses his heated skin, looks up and around, notices Sam and Dean’s absence, and again settles his regard upon your pink-petaled grin.

A solitary fluffy snowflake, the first to fall in the storm, sashays into the space between you; a briskly rising breeze eddies it to land lightly on your lips. It lingers for a split second, a feathery sixfold effigy to the wintry season, then thaws into a shapeless silhouette of damp.

“What is it?” Your lips press, tongue licking at the watery remnants.

Overcome by a desire to perish, too, like the snowflake melting in the sweet hot oblivion of your mouth, he drifts nearer, stooping so close his reply radiates as a brushed murmur over your mouth, “A snowflake.” 

Your smile widens in the wash of his honeyed breath. It’s highly specific answers to vague questions such as this that render him impossibly endearing to you and utterly insufferable at times to his friends. You tender a delicate kiss to the bow of his mouth, teasingly coy when he vies with a tilt of the chin to passionately deepen the connection with a lunge.

Undeterred by the aversive action, his palms slide to your sides; he settles instead upon peppering a series of growled kisses into the ticklish crook of your neck.

Giggling and gasping lungfuls of cold at the prickle of stubble grazing your flesh, your eyes flick upward into the swirling depths of the inky atmosphere above; a cascading multitude of crystals dance downward to coat you both in a sparkle of white. You naturally shift your body flush to him, frosty fingers slithering under the lapels of his coat, around his back an up his muscular spine, taking full advantage of the inviting warmth of his vessel. “I love snow storms,” you sigh, closing your eyes as you cling to him, glitter of white gathering on your lashes.

Breaking off his unshaven siege of your throat, he lays a palm to your cheek and kisses the cold from your eyelids in turn - they flutter open to meet his shining blues. “I love _you_ ,” he declares his heart without hesitation, although a tangible trepidation of self-doubt tenses his broad shoulders slightly beneath your hands - neither of you has named the sentiment aloud until this moment.

Leveraging his bulk for balance, compelling him to encircle his arms about your waist, soothing his stiffness away with a beaming snow-kissed smile, you rise up on tip-toes to enshrine the words on his parted lips with a smooch. “I love you too, angel.”


	43. "I'm utterly indifferent."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When it comes to getting comfortable - really truly comfy - Castiel isn’t as oblivious as he sometimes leads you to believe.

He’s wearing that face again - the pout-pinched heavy-lidded damp-blue thoughts turned inward one that soundlessly screams of self-defeat. Sam’s text warned you to expect your celestial significant other to arrive in an extra mopey mood assuming he didn’t decide to stay out all night wandering the roadways or sit in some secluded area on a park bench awaiting the dawn of day and the rays of the sun rising like a savior to cleanse him of his perceived transgressions. The latter forever exists a distinct possibility given his past preferences; although, since both of you discovered and acquiesced to the depth of adoration mutually nurtured for one another, you’ve found - to your delight - he considers the space beside you just as sacred as the solace he would otherwise seek in the solitude of nature.

Chin weighted to his chest by the burden of whatever happened - Sam left out the exact details, they’re less important to you than the fact all of them are alive - ferried into the room on a briskly cool breeze brushing the flaps of his trench coat, he shuts the motel door behind him with a gentle thud so as not to disturb you. He looks up and over to where you’ve created a cushioned nest against the headboard of the double bed. A fluffy blanket covers your boy short and t-shirt - a vintage Zeppelin tour tee on permanent loan from Dean’s closet - clad figure. In the yellow incandescent glow of the side table lamp, your mouth stretches in a warm welcoming smile.

“Hey, angel.“

The faintest flicker of relief over your wakefulness softens the darkly stacked furrows of his brow. He trusts you’ll forgive him for not mustering a greeting in return.

“You want to talk about it?” You scoot over and pat a palm to the liberated spot of sheet.

Shaking his head, he rolls the coat over his broad shoulders and lets it slip nearly to the floor before catching the sleeve and tossing it into a pile of beige draping the end of the mattress. Thus totally inadequately disrobed by your human standards of preference for snuggling, he crawls over the discarded garment and into the indicated area, shifting some pillows so he can sit with a stiffly straightened spine.

You and he both eye the black leather shine of his shoes, stuck straight out at awkward angles over the blanket, at the same time.

He knows you don’t condone wearing shoes in bed. As he suspected you would, you sigh and squirm forward on your knees to pluck them from his feet and chuck them, one by one, with pointed precision into the void of the room. He reaches out to settle a hand to the ample slope of your hip as you shimmy and sway to yank loose the boots from his unyielding ankles. A soft smile traces his lips over your determination and swallowed grumbles of footwear-induced frustration.

“There,” you huff, finally freeing the left boot and falling back against the headboard with a breathless from the exertion exhalation, “now that feels a lot cozier, doesn’t it?” Your gaze lolls sideways awaiting his answer.

He subdues all vestiges of sneaky amusement with a stoic set of jaw, stares briefly at his socked toes, and shrugs. “I’m utterly indifferent.”

Feigned fire blazes in your expression and singes your cheeks crimson. “Utterly indifferent?” you echo, gesturing upward. “Either you’re more comfortable, or you’re not, there’s no indifferent.”

“I’m an angel, physical comfort doesn’t particularly concern me.” It’s not a complete lie - celestial being or not, certain physical comforts are of particular interest to him, just not the ones involving the sole-shrouded state of his vessel’s feet.

Growl gurgling in your throat, leaving no room for him to mount further defense, not that he genuinely wants to, you fumble at the blanket, hauling it over you both and struggling to smooth out the wrinkles.

The smile simmers once again on the seraph’s mien, crisper now, growing to crease his cheeks and eyes in its shine. He enjoys the ruse of the routine. Or perhaps it’s the other way around, either way, it’s effective for taking his mind off the world beyond the borders of the bed.

Leaning over his lap, babbling nonsensically about the thoroughly comforting degree of coziness you’ll show him to banish any and all angelic indifference to the notion, you tuck the blanket securely under his legs.

He clasps long fingers over the delicate - by comparison to the broadness of his grip - bones of your wrist to still your fidgeting.

“Don’t you dare tell me you don’t have an opinion now. This is damned near perfectly cozy.” You turn your head, semi-scowling, to be met by his smiling lips sealing over yours in a kiss.

He pulls back, barely, for you to breathe; roughened fingertips caressing the sliver of flesh exposed at your waist, suggestively sinking beneath the hem of your panties, the whispered warmth of his words tickles your pink-moistened lips. “You’re right, this is perfect.” In fact, there’s no where, in all of creation, he’d rather be than in the shimmering light of your love and soul.


	44. Birdsong

The glow of dawn grows brighter, its gentle golden light illuminating the motel’s wide picture window to shroud your slumber-veiled vision. Rousing, inhaling a deep lungful of the residual scent of spent angelic grace and sex arousing the air, rubbing at dark-accustomed eyes to clear the lingering vestiges of torpor burdening their lids, you free a yawning sigh into the room; remembering the passion of the night, relishing in the pleasantly dull ache of muscles making limbs sluggish and the soothing numbness of blissfully wrought nerves pulsing echoes of ecstasy throughout your body, a languid smile sets into the corners of your mouth as you reach sideways for the seraph.

The space of sheet beside you stretches vacant in every direction fingertips blindly probe in search of that heavenly heated skin; the cotton lay creased and not yet cool beneath your fingertips reassuring you as to the recentness of his rising. “Cas?” you murmur in a sleep-roughened pitch. Squirming to sit up, squinting beyond the bed, you see his broad-shouldered silhouette shadowing the shining sill.

He remains motionless, focus fixed on the daybreak. The sheer fabric of the curtain billows in a breath of outside air; blowing inward, it brushes his nude vessel, the celestial being within evidently immune to the briskness of the breeze prickling your flesh and sending shivers sprinting up and down your spine.

Pouring yourself onto the floor, bare feet touch the cushion of carpet; taxed thighs tremble trying to straighten, the raw reminiscence of the angel’s stubbly chin and endless mouthed ministrations stings where they crush together. Gathering the trailing sheet caught at your waist loosely around your corporeally frailer form in defense of the cool of morning flooding in to replace the fiery warmth, tired legs stabilize you just enough to stand and stagger a few steps toward him.

“Castiel,” you say his name again, an intimate whisper, syllables softened by affection. You touch a freezing palm to the solid sinew of arm hanging at his side.

The contact pulls him out of intense inward rumination, prompting him to pivot and wrap you in a hug; strong hands move to massage frictional warmth into your quivering frame. “You’re frozen,” he admonishes the mess of locks topping your head where he plants a nuzzled kiss.

“I’m fine.” You tangle your arms around his torso, sinking deeper into the cozy embrace. “Or I will be in a minute or two more.” Twisting your neck, you peer up into his blues – you notice the color frequently fluctuates with his mood, the gleam of sapphire now dimming to a dusky blue-grey. Tightness cinches the heart skipping beats in your chest; your expression tapers in concern he regrets the somatically sensual advancement of your relationship. You do your best to neutralize the fear. “What are you doing?”

He senses apprehension stiffen you ever so slightly against him. Guilt thickens his throat, unspoken apology tenders some of the haze clouding his irises with renewed clarity. Although a smile doesn’t affect the pink bow of his lips, the impress of one born of unwavering adoration pleats itself firmly in the lines encircling his eyes. You, your love, his love for you, these are the last things in all of creation he would ever doubt and he feels badly for shaking your confidence by giving in to the overwhelming doubt he holds for everything _else_ , especially for the future beyond this trice of perfect contentment.

“Listen,” he says, gaze darting to the dawn, also choosing to avoid mentioning nurtured uncertainties aloud. “What do you hear?”

You close your eyes to better hone your ears. Cheerful birdsong, the sweetly noted ballad of a solo feathered performer, trills in the canopy of trees ringing the parking lot beyond the open window. Leaves frantically rustle in a glacially damp gust of air. You shudder despite being enveloped by the angel’s radiant balmy heat. “A bird singing,” you answer.

“A robin,” he specifies, turning his back to the gaping glass to better shield you from the whirlwind rush of cold. For all the warmth he imparts to you, coldness of doubt anchors deeper into his conscience. The bass of his tone drops to a forebodingly husked shell. “They sing when a storm is coming.” Being with you, he understands what it means to be happy; in your soul he discovered the path to that elusive state of happiness. He sees the possibility, and at the same time he should be cherishing the closeness and comfort, he has never been more afraid. In his experience a storm brews always on the horizon – watching, waiting, ready to shatter any sense of shelter; the robin simply served as a reminder.

Looking up at him, you perceive in the furrowing frown of brow that his concentration again bends somewhere distant and dark. “Hey, c’mere, angel.” Liberating first one, then both arms from his adamantly protective grip, you cushion his unshaven chin in your palms. Thumbs sweeping the sandpaper skin, you pull him down to rest his forehead on yours, compelling him to return his regard to you. “Maybe a storm is coming, but remember, a robin sings when the storm is over, too.”

Lashes fluttering closed, relief flattens his features because, of course, you’re right. Perhaps the storms have dissipated; perhaps it’s time to stop fighting – to stop doubting. A shaky intake of breath rattling his ribcage, reflexively stealing his nerves for whatever comes next, for the first time in forever, he allows himself the uninhibited experience of total happiness.


	45. A Castiel Carol

_“Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the Feast of Stephen ... ”_

Waking, roused by the monotone bass lyrics booming through the thinly insulated walls, you groan into the puddle of drool dampening your pillow. Sleep-stuck eyes squint at and struggle to bring into focus the glaring red numbers of the alarm clock on the bedside table. It’s after midnight, which makes it officially Christmas Day. And here you lie, in a not quite numb enough winter wasteland between buzzed and tipsy, alone in a motel, _again_. How positively freaking _merry_.

_“When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even ... ”_

Disrupting your dour mood, the insistent individual voice ringing - raking nerves rather - outside continues to revel in the season, tone deaf and rudely _loud_ if you do say so - and, oh boy, the throbbing in your temples suggests you _do_. Jabbing the balls of your fists into your eyes, you fling the blanket off your clothing-clad figure to sit, well, _slump_ , upright. Fumbling for the bottle of booze beside the clock, nearly knocking it and the lamp off the surface in clumsiness, you pour equal halves of eggnog and liquid cheer into an empty glass and dump the mixture down the hatch in a single gulp, gasping on the throat-searing finish. 

_“Brightly shown the moon that night, though the frost was cruel ... ”_

Lacking conviction on account of the odd pentameter of rhyme, the half-spoken half-sung enunciation of _cruel_ strikes the ears as comical. Comical, and comprised of a certain rasped familiarity of reverberation in the gently tickling quality. The faded yellow wallpaper reflects as muddied mustard in the electric glow of the television 12 hours and a few minutes in to airing a 24/7 marathon of _A Christmas Story_. Just as Santa kicks Ralphie down the slide, your features widen in recognition. “Cas?” You leap from the bed - a bad idea as your feet lag behind the bulk of your lunging legs.

_“When a poor man came in sight-”_

Saving your stumbling form with a reach toward the knob, rending it round, you fling open the door to reveal a trench-coated seraph not-so-suavely sporting a Santa hat. 

He swallows the remainder of the chorus, compressing his mouth into a small smile. “Hello, Y/N.” He holds up a plastic grocery bag plastered with a smiley face and smelling suspiciously of Chinese take-out.

What he is is a sight for sore eyes. “Cas!” Forgoing feeling any of the usual awkwardness, you dive in for a sloppy, on your uninhibited loose-limbed part, hug. “What are you doing here?”

“Caroling,” he states flatly. Welcoming the close contact, he taps a tentative hand lightly into the tuck of your waist. Surreptitiously nestling his nose into your hair, he notes the signature scent of you lingers there unsullied beneath the mask of nutmeg, sugar, and rum tainting your breath.

"Oh, is that what that was?” You pull away slightly, balancing your palms to his chest, warmly pressed to either side of his tie, to peer into his sparkling blues. “I meant, what are you doing _here_?” you repeat, emphasizing the final word to clarify.

A number of answers spring to mind. He perceived your sorrow and loneliness, not so much in the phone call to Sam and Dean and he at the bunker yesterday when you bid them a happy holiday eve and let them know you wouldn’t make it home after all, but rather he felt it in the stuttered beating of his celestial heart, the regularity of the rhythm happily affected and ofttimes afflicted by you. 

He also heard you wishing it was different this year, and what is a wish if not a prayer to angelic ears. Sharing the circumstances of his knowing what you’re feeling, like knowing when you are sleeping and when you are awake, or when you’ve been having particularly _naughty_ fantasies featuring him which prompt nothing but _nice_ thoughts of his own, he realizes, makes him seem like a perverse version of jolly old Saint Nick. 

He elects to divulge, instead, the comparatively less intrusive sounding third piece of the truth which, as his chin and gaze shyly drop to study the space between your bodies, still manages to pink his scruffy cheeks. “I missed you. I thought it might be nice to spend the holiday ... _together_.” 

“Together?” You echo, evidently unable to formulate thoughts of your own.

Doubt creeping in despite your undeniably warm reception of his middle-of-the-night unannounced arrival on your doorstep, he adds, “If you wanted too, of course.” Furtively meeting your softly smiling eyes, he clarifies just in case you misunderstood the meaning of together. “Spend it with me that is.”

The affirmative bobbling of your head that began somewhere back when he professed to have missed you accelerates into an enthusiastic nod. “Of course I do,” you squeak, slithering your arms around his neck to squeeze him tight. Brushing your lips over the sensitive skin below his ear, skirting the chestnut curls with humid breath, you tease, “On one condition.”

His muscles go rigid in your grasp. “Anything,” he nervously croaks. He really would assent to anything you ask.

“Promise me you won’t sing anymore.” It’s significantly kinder than saying his vocal chords aren’t exactly honed for a heavenly choir. You could listen to his silken smooth speaking voice all day, not so much the ill-timed syllables of seraphim song.

The stiffness of apprehension thaws with a sigh of, “I promise.”

Breaking backward, broad smile etched deeply into dimpled laugh lines, you tip up on your toes to peck the grateful gift of a balmy kiss to the side of his mouth. Lips grazing on withdrawal, heat melts the tender flesh there. “Merry Christmas, angel.” Spinning, you draw him into the recesses of the room by the sleeve.

The warmth of your kiss spreads, pulling pliant lips upward in shared contentment as he follows.


	46. Seven Minutes in Heaven

A whispering of wings whooshes. Electric fingertips reach out; the lightly swept brush of calloused pads spark fiery bursts of excitement upon your spine. 

Although the carefully folded freshly laundered clothing clutched in your arms falls forgotten into a shapeless heap of denim and flannel piling the floor at your feet, you don’t flinch in fright at the familiar sound and sensation of the seraph’s arrival and touch despite the aching distance of weeks since your last encounter of angelic affection. It’s relief that limply weakens your limbs, echoes as an ecstatic exhalation through a smiling mouth, and devotion that wildly drums a heart to the hoarse heights of your throat to murmur, “Hey, angel.”  He’s safe. He’s _home_ , and there’s no telling how long you’ll have him.

No matter his need for you, Heaven needs him, too; although that soldierly duty can dampen his desire for only so long before he succumbs to the spell of seduction sung by your soul and seeks the succor of close contact. 

Silent, lashes shuttering the glassy blue hue of his gaze, savoring the sweet song of you, he sets a scruffy chin upon your shoulder, spreading and pressing his palms across the padded stretch of flesh over your pelvis to pull your unprotesting figure taut against the muscular structure of his vessel. Feathers bend, grazing the tile and concrete hallway walls; smoothly tapered tips isolate you from the bunker’s earthen distractions, folding you both in an intimate shield of shimmering silken black.

A heavy sigh rumbles the air, vibrating to your bones; he inhales, thick torso expanding, cementing his hold to eliminate all gaps of space persisting between your bodies as he drinks deep of your scent - the subtle blend of salt, soap, and _bliss_ comforts the wearied celestial creature. He missed you more than words can say.

You cover his wandering hands with your own, weaving anchoring reassurance back into his being through an intertwining of fingers, happy to be his harbor.

“Hello, honeybee.” He breathes the balmy greeting over the sensitive shell of your ear; the sentiment sends sultry shivers surging over your skin.

As exhausted as he’s become serving the will of his thankless and absent Father’s kingdom, stoic features more and more handsomely haggard each time you meet, glints of grey growing now to pepper his chin and temples, you’ve equally tired of sharing _him_. Every cell of your being screams in wanting to ask if he’ll stay this time. The question tips on the pouted precipice of pink lips, paralyzed in apprehension of the answer you know - the one neither of you acknowledges aloud because it will always be this way. You dare not ask - a being torn between two worlds, the angel you adore carries too much regret already.

Nuzzling the column of your neck, a tender kiss poised atop your pulse point, he feels the timorous plea there in the pound of your heart. Apology rasps his voice, wetly gathers unseen by you in the blur of his vision. “We only have a few minutes.” His wings rustle, wrapping tighter as if to resist their inevitable and imminent flight from you.

“I know.” Subduing a sniffle, the shadow of a grateful smile darkens with charm the creases of your countenance. Twisting, tugging at his tie to guide him to your lips, you promise him in the unhurried undulation of a kiss - pliant, patient, and passionate - that he’s enough _; this_ , it’s enough. 

In his arms, cradled in the cushion of a winged embrace, a few minutes flowers to fill the infinite space of forever.


End file.
